


Virginia City Detour

by pkmoonshine



Series: Bloodlines [7]
Category: Bonanza, Highway to Heaven, Touched by an Angel
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 50,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pkmoonshine/pseuds/pkmoonshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil, ambitious man has a dark secret and will go to any lengths to keep that secret from becoming public knowledge, even if it means killing the entire Cartwright family.  Help comes from very high places in the forms of Jonathan Smith, who bears a very close resemblance to the youngest of Ben Cartwright's sons, and his mentor, Tess.  A crossover between Bonanza, Highway To Heaven, and Touched By An Angel, and part of a series that includes the addition of a non-canon character.</p><p>All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are property of their respective owners.  The original characters and plot are property of the author.   The author is not in any way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, and makes no money from this work.     No copyright infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Something’s wrong, Big Brother!” Stacy declared, as she and Hoss approached the hitching post on the street in front of the General Store.

Hoss looked up and saw Stacy’s best friend, Molly O’Hanlan, on the wood walkway in front of the General Store, pacing relentlessly back and forth like a caged wild cat. She paused occasionally to glance over her shoulder, and once, she ran over to the store window and peered at the wall clock hanging inside on the opposite wall.

“ ‘Morning, Molly!” Stacy called out a greeting, as she and Hoss dismounted from their horses.

“Good morning, Stacy . . . you, too, Hoss,” Molly stopped pacing long enough to return their greeting.

Ever since the start of school six weeks earlier, Stacy Cartwright and Molly O’Hanlan met six year old Timmy O’Toole, the young son of Lotus O’Toole in front of the General Store. Timmy thoroughly enjoyed the company of the older girls. Molly was always on hand to help with homework and provide the intellectual stimulation he craved. Stacy let him ride Blaze Face from the General Store to the livery stable nearest the school yard. For the present, he sat in the saddle, while she led the horse. Stacy had promised riding lessons, but that would have to wait until his mother decided he was old enough.

“Molly, where’s Timmy?” Stacy asked, as she and Hoss tethered their horses at the hitching post.

“I don’t know,” Molly wailed. “Stacy, I’m worried.”

“Molly, it could be his ma’s keepin’ him home today, ‘cause he ain’t feelin’ well,” Hoss suggested in an attempt to reassure his sister’s distraught friend.

Molly vigorously shook her head. “If that’s the case, Miss O’Toole’s ALWAYS here first thing to let me know,” she said. “She sets great store in Timmy getting as good an education as he can. If he’s going to be absent from school, she makes sure that I . . . and the teacher . . . know the reason why.”

“Molly’s right about that, Big Brother,” Stacy said in complete agreement.

“Tell you what?” Hoss said, feeling a trifle uneasy himself. “Why don’t we go see Miss O’Toole an’ find out exactly what’s what?”

“Thank you, Hoss,” Molly said gratefully, then sighed. “There’s probably a perfectly good explanation why Timmy’s not here this morning, but I’d sure feel a lot better if I knew what it was.”

Stacy helped Molly to climb on Blaze Face’s back, behind her.

“Where does Miss O’Toole live?” Hoss asked.

“Blood Alley, at the end of the street,” Molly replied.

Stacy paled, and shuddered. It had not been so long ago since she was abducted by men working for her late uncle, John McKenna, and held prisoner in one of the tenements along that row. If her parents, Paris McKenna and Ben Cartwright, hadn’t found out where she was and come to the rescue, she would have almost certainly been murdered there.

“Would you rather wait for Molly ‘n me here, Little Sister?” Hoss queried gently, accurately discerning the reason for Stacy’s discomfort.

Stacy swallowed, then resolutely shook her head. “I’m ok, Big Brother,” she tried to reassure him. “Let’s go see Miss O’Toole.”

 

At first glance, the O’Toole residence appeared no different than most of the other desolate, uninhabited structures lining both sides of the narrow, dirt alley. No light shone from the front window facing the street, and there was no sign of activity within. Hoss also noted with dismay that no smoke rose from the chimney, despite the heavy frost covering the small patches of vegetation along the street.

“Hoss, I think the front door’s open,” Stacy noted, with heart in mouth, as the trio dismounted.

“Stacy, I want you to take Molly an’ the horses an’ take cover behind that bush over there,” Hoss pointed to a large overgrown shrub growing at the edge of the road across from the O’Toole residence. “If I ain’t outta there in fifteen minutes, you two go fetch the sheriff.”

“We will, Big Brother,” Stacy promised, “but you be careful in there all the same, alright?”

“I will,” Hoss promised.

Stacy, Molly, and the two horses quickly moved to cover, while Hoss drew his gun and began to move cautiously up the dirt path leading to the open front door.

After what seemed an eternity, Hoss finally reached the wooden stoop in front of the door. He quickly moved to the side where the hinges were, and flattened himself against the wall. Thankfully, the front window was on the other side of the door. Hoss took a deep breath, and rapped loudly and forcefully on the door.

“Lotus? Timmy? Anyone home?” he called out. “It’s Hoss Cartwright.”

No answer.

“Hello!” Hoss called out again. “Anyone home?”

“M-Mister Hoss?”

Hoss found himself looking into the small frightened face of a hazel eyed young boy, with thick black hair. His eyes were as round as saucers. The reddened cheeks and swollen eyelids, told Hoss that the child had spent a great deal of time crying. “Timmy? Where’s your ma?” he immediately returned his gun to its holster and knelt down so that he could be at eye level for the young child.

“I don’t know where she is, Mister Hoss,” Timmy replied, his voice barely audible. He was barefoot, clad in a pair of thin, cotton pajama bottoms and no shirt. A worn cashmere shawl, a gift to his mother from an admirer long ago, was draped over his small, thin frame. “Ma didn’t come home last night.”

Hoss took Timmy’s small hands in his own large one, noting with concern and dismay they were ice cold to the touch. “Timmy, you ‘n me are gonna see what we c’n do t’ find your ma,” he promised.

Timmy nodded solemnly.

With his promise to the cold, frightened boy standing before him, Hoss took matters firmly in hand. He sent Stacy and Molly on to school, instructing them to let the teacher know that Timmy O’Toole would not be in class that day. Molly protested vigorously.  
“Molly, you know Timmy’s in good hands with Hoss,” Stacy said, with an almost uncharacteristic show of good old fashioned common sense. “I think the only person I’d trust more than my big brother to look after Timmy is his ma.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “Besides, if YOUR ma found out you’d skipped school, there’d be ummm . . . you know what to pay.”

Molly, unable to argue with Stacy on either point, reluctantly gave in and went on to school.

“Timmy, you ‘n me’s gonna pay Sheriff Coffee a visit first thing to let him know about your ma,” Hoss said.

“Mister Hoss, I don’t want to get her in trouble,” Timmy protested.

“You won’t,” Hoss promised. Lotus O’Toole was, more than likely, already in serious trouble. Otherwise, she would have come home last night after getting off work at the Silver Dollar. “Timmy, wherever your ma is right now, she probably needs help,” Hoss explained carefully. “That’s why we’re goin’ to see Sheriff Coffee. So ‘s he can help your ma.”

“M-Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?”

“What if . . . what if Ma’s dead?”

“Timmy, we got no way of knowin’ that right now,” Hoss said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “ ‘Til we do, you gotta hope for the best.”

Timmy nodded.

“We got ‘bout another hour ‘fore Sheriff Coffee’s in his office,” Hoss said. “How ‘bout I fix you a nice big breakfast, ‘fore you wash an’ git dressed?”

“I’m not hungry right now, Mister Hoss,” the boy said miserably.

“Alright, you can eat later,” Hoss said. “Let’s git you washed and dressed.”

 

“Children, time for recess,” Miss Tess, the school teacher announced. She was a stolidly built black woman, aged by all appearances in her late fifties or early sixties. Those who had occasion to spend even a few extra minutes with her came away with the distinct impression she was far older than outward appearance indicated. Her hair, worn in a sensible chignon, was mostly salt and pepper gray. The top and sides framing her face, however, were pure white.

As a teacher, Miss Tess’ knowledge was impeccable and extensive. She imparted that knowledge to her students in an interesting, lively, and often humorous manner. Yet she was a firm, strict disciplinarian, known far and wide as one who did not suffer fools gladly. Miss Tess was also well known for a quick smile, a helping hand, a deep abiding love and compassion for those around her, and a quick, earthy sense of humor.

“Stacy Cartwright, may I see you for a moment please?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Stacy rose from her seat and made her way toward the teachers’ desk past the tidal surge of students racing in the opposite direction for the great outdoors.

“You’re in trouble now, Miss High and Mighty Cartwright!” It was Judge Caine’s son, Abel. His father, a widower, overindulged the boy on material possessions while short changing him with regard to parental love, attention, and discipline. The result was an angry young trouble maker at the beginning of his teen years.

Stacy pointedly ignored the boy.

“Hey! Where do you get off walking by me like I don’t exist?” Abel demanded indignantly, his brow knotting with anger.

“Abel Caine, I said it’s time for recess,” Miss Tess reminded him in a soft, quiet voice, carrying in it the raw power of an approaching thunder storm.

Abel opened his mouth to utter the smart remark that lay on the tip of his tongue. The look in Miss Tess’ black eyes led him to think before speaking for perhaps the first time in his young life. “Yes, Ma’am,” he sighed, before turning heel and fleeing from the school house.

“Yes, Miss Tess?” Stacy asked, upon reaching the front of the room.

“You and Molly O’Hanlan already told me that Timmy O’Toole wouldn’t be in class today,” the teacher said quietly. “Can you tell me why?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Stacy replied, grateful that Miss Tess had opted to pursue this privately. “It seems his ma didn’t come home last night.”

“Oh dear.”

“Miss Tess, I don’t know what you may have heard about Miss O’Toole around town,” Stacy said, feeling oddly on the defensive. “But, Miss O’Toole loves Timmy more ‘n just about anything. She’d never just up and leave him like this.”

“I’m sorry, Stacy, I didn’t mean to imply that Miss O’Toole’s an unfit mother in any way,” Miss Tess readily apologized.

“I should be the one apologizing, Miss Tess,” Stacy said ruefully. “I’m forever speaking first, thinking about it later.”

“You took up for a friend, Stacy,” Miss Tess said with a smile. “You don’t need to ever apologize to me for that.” She fell silent briefly. “Where’s Timmy now?”

“My brother, Hoss, said he was taking Timmy to see Sheriff Coffee . . . to report his ma missing,” Stacy replied. “After that, knowing my big brother as I do,” she smiled,

“Timmy’ll probably stay with us at the Ponderosa ‘til Miss O’Toole’s found.”  
Miss Tess returned Stacy’s smile. “That big brother of yours has a big heart, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, Ma’am, he sure does,” Stacy replied, the love, awe, and respect she felt for Hoss readily apparent in her voice and her face, “and its as big as all outdoors.”

“Thank you, Stacy, you may go on outside with the others,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Tess knew, after that brief conversation with Stacy Cartwright, that she and her young protégée had been dispatched to Virginia City to help young Timmy O’Toole, and his mother. That much was clear. Tess also knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this assignment involved far more than simply helping the O’Tooles. A great evil had been committed, capable of unleashing terrible repercussions, if things were not put right, as quickly as possible.

Tess leveled a withering glare toward the heavens. “The problem with that is I haven’t a clue as to where to BEGIN putting things right,” she said aloud. “You haven’t exactly been what I would call forthcoming on this.” She sighed, and shook her head dolefully. “Father,” she prayed earnestly, “for right now, I just ask that you do one thing.” She paused. “Please, let someone find Timmy O’Toole’s mother as quickly as possible . . . . ”

 

“Excuse me, Sir . . . . ”

Ben Cartwright, standing at the Silver Dollar Saloon bar, nursing a mug of beer, turned and smiled. “Joseph, glad you’re— ” The smile abruptly faded. “I . . . for a minute there, I thought . . . . ”

“The name’s Jonathan Smith,” the young man said, holding out his hand.

Ben took the young man’s hand and shook it. “Ben Cartwright,” he said, grinning again, in spite of himself. “I don’t believe this! You could very easily pass for my youngest son’s older identical twin brother.”

“Well, you know what they say, Mister Cartwright,” Jonathan said. “All of us have an exact double living in the world somewhere.”

“Sam!”

“Yes, Ben?”

“A drink for my friend here,” Ben ordered. “It’s on me.”

“Your friend? Isn’t that . . . . ” the bartender stared long and hard at Jonathan Smith. “No, it ain’t! Gotta admit the resemblance is uncanny, though.”

“It is indeed,” Ben agreed.

“What’ll ya have?”

“A beer if I may,” Jonathan ordered, then returned his attention to Ben. “Thank you, Mister Cartwright. Now if you could point me in the direction of a good boarding house and a job . . . . ”

“As a matter of fact, I can do both,” Ben said earnestly. “Rumors of a big silver strike up north have drawn a lot men away from the ranches in these parts, and all of us are short handed. If you’re looking for work, I have plenty.”

“Great,” Jonathan said, smiling. “When do I start?”

“As soon as my son your double joins us,” Ben said.

Joe Cartwright walked in, as if on cue, looking a little downcast. He and his father had ridden to Virginia City for the purpose of hiring men. Normally, there would be more than enough drifters, the people just passing through, to help out on all of the big spreads during the busy times of the year. This morning, however, with the growing rumors of silver and even gold to the north, there were virtually no drifters to be found, let alone hired.

“Joseph, over here!” Ben called to his youngest son.

“Well, Pa, if I hadn’t had BAD luck in trying to find and hire men this morning, I’d have  
had no luck at all,” Joe said ruefully.

“I actually had someone come to me,” Ben said with a grin. “Joseph, this is Jonathan Smith. He’s new in town and looking for work.” He paused. “Mister Smith, this is my youngest son, Joe.”

“Good meeting you, Mister Cartwright,” Jonathan smiled and extended his hand.  
“I’m real pleased to meet you, too, Mister Smith,” Joe said, shaking the older man’s hand, “but, taking into account that my pa here . . . my older brother, Hoss . . . and I all answer to Mister Cartwright at one time or another, I think things will be a lot less confusing if you call me Joe.”

“Sure thing, Joe,” Jonathan readily agreed, “but only if you call me Jonathan.”

“Then Jonathan it is,” Joe replied, his grin broadening into a warm smile. “When can you start?”

“Right now this minute,” Jonathan replied.

“Not thinking of heading north to check out those rumors of silver and gold in them thar hills . . . are you?” Joe ventured.

“No,” Jonathan smiled, and shook his head. “I’m not much of a gamblin’ man, I’m afraid.

When it comes to making a living, I’d rather go with the sure thing every time.”

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Does Mister Smith in any way look familiar to you?” Ben asked, then waited expectantly for Joe’s reaction.

Joe studied Jonathan Smith for a long moment, then shook his head. “Sorry, Pa, and no offense, Jonathan, but I’m afraid he doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

For a minute, Ben looked a little crestfallen. “Well,” he picked up the mug and finished the last of his beer, “we’d better get on home.”

“Just a minute, Pa,” Joe said. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a book of short children’s stories. “I picked this up for Timmy at the church rummage sale last month . . . you know, the one they had after Mister O’Flynn’s still blew up and burned most of the building to the ground.”

“I remember,” Ben said with a scowl.

“I’ve been meaning to give it to Timmy, but he and I haven’t managed to be at the same place at the same time,” Joe continued. “I thought maybe I’d give it to Lotus since we’re here.”

“Alright, Son,” Ben agreed. “Jonathan and I’ll be waiting out by the buckboard.”  
Joe first looked for Sam, the bartender, only to find the man no where in sight. He pocketed the book and sighed, resigned to giving it to Timmy another time. As he turned to leave, he saw Sally Tyler walking down from the upstairs level, looking very subdued.

“Sally . . . . ”

“Good mornin’, Joe.”

“I have a book for Timmy,” Joe said. “I got it at the church rummage sale last month. Is Lotus here? I thought I’d . . . . ” The stricken, horrified look on Sally’s face strangled the remaining words in his throat.

“Oh, Dear, you don’t know do you?” Sally murmured softly.

“Know what?”

“Lotus O’Toole never went home last night,” Sally said. “Your brother and sister found Timmy home by himself this mornin’ . . . . ”

Joe felt the wind leave him, as if someone had just delivered a hard sucker punch to his stomach. “N-no one has any idea w-where she may be?” he barely managed to get the words out.

“Hoss and Timmy went to see Sheriff Coffee first thing,” Sally said slowly. “He . . . the sheriff that is . . . was here a while ago, asking questions, but so far, we haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Where’s Timmy?”

“With your brother, Hoss,” Sally said quietly. “I imagine Timmy’ll be out at the Ponderosa ‘til his ma turns up.”

Joe nodded, managing a wan smile. “Knowing Hoss, you’re probably right,” he said.

“You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

“Sure will, Joe,” Sally promised.

 

Silence lay over the Cartwrights and Jonathan Smith like a heavy pall, as they rode from Virginia City back to the Ponderosa. Ben had the reins, and Joe sat next to him, his body rigid with tension as shock underwent its dark transformation to anger, seething below a deceptively calm outward appearance. Jonathan Smith had settled himself in the back of the buckboard, his thoughts racing light years a minute.

Though he had yet to meet either Lotus O’Toole or her son, Timmy, Jonathan knew that he and his mentor and immediate supervisor, Tess, had been detoured to Virginia City to help them. He also knew there was much more to this assignment than simply helping a young mother and her little boy.

Jonathan sensed the looming presence of a bigger picture, a veritable dark masterpiece that somehow included Lotus and Timmy O’Toole. Most, though not all, of the elements making up that malevolent work of art, were already down on the proverbial canvas. He and Tess had to find that picture and prevent its completion. If they failed, there would be devastating repercussions, not only for Lotus O’Toole and her young son, but for the Cartwright family as well.

. . . and, as if he and Tess didn’t already have too many metaphorical flies in the ointment, The Boss, the One to whom he and Tess both answered, had not seen fit to provide much in the way of details.

Jonathan’s thoughts turned to Joe Cartwright. The missing O’Toole woman was a close friend, and had been so since the day both of them entered the first grade at the Virginia City School, according to the local scuttlebutt. That much was obvious. Equally obvious . . . neither ever had entertained anything of a romantic nature toward one another. Joe was fond of Miss O’Toole’s young son, as evidenced by the book he had purchased as a gift to the lad, but, at the same time, it was clear that the youngest Cartwright son was not the boy’s father.

 _“ . . . the boy’s father,”_ Jonathan silently turned those words over in his mind several times, like a chanted prayer, or mantra. _“ . . . . the boy’s father, the boy’s father.”_ Those words resonated within Jonathan, leaving him with an odd, haunting sense of foreboding. _“Hey, Boss,”_ Jonathan prayed silently. _“Who IS Timmy O’Toole’s father?”_

Silence. No name, not even the subtlest of hints. There was only the strong conviction that Timmy O’Toole’s father was one of the major elements in the dark masterpiece that someone back in Virginia City toiled upon so laboriously.

 _“Hey, Boss, a lot of good, decent people are depending on Tess and me to put a stop to . . . to . . . to whatever it is that’s going on,” _Jonathan prayed again silently. _“If you could see your way to giving us a hint as to where we might begin looking for the boy’s father . . . well, speaking for myself? I’d sure appreciate it.”___

He would know Timmy O’Toole’s father IF he saw him. Jonathan sighed and shook his head. The Boss could be so frustratingly elusive sometimes!

The movement of a dark shadow circling above caught Jonathan’s attention, drawing him from his troubled thoughts. It was a lone turkey vulture circling high above the surrounding meadow, its grasses already clad in their autumn yellows and gold. “Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

Ben glanced up. “Yes, I see it, Mister Smith,” he said. He steered the buckboard off the road, and put on the brakes.

“Pa, what is it?” Joe asked, trying to shake his own growing feelings of foreboding.

“Turkey vulture,” Ben said, pointing at the bird circling overhead. “Probably a dead wild animal, but I . . . I feel like I should make certain.”

Ben, Joe, and Jonathan climbed down from the buckboard and started walking, side by side out into the meadow, toward the spot over which the bird above continued to circle. Joe, being the youngest of the three, surged ahead.

“Joe,” Ben called out. “You see anything?”

“No, not . . . . ” Joe froze, the words and thoughts fleeing from his mind as wild animals flee from an approaching forest fire. There, lying on the ground in front of him was a bare human leg, female, covered by blood and deep purple bruises. With heart thudding painfully against his throat, Joe gingerly parted the grasses.

Lotus O’Toole lay sprawled on the ground, barely conscious, clinging to the tattered remains of the dress she had worn to work last night. Her nose had been broken and bloodied. Her right eye was swollen shut under deep purple and sickly green bruising. Joe could also see a string of small, oval shaped bruises, hued in a deep purple almost black on her arms and around her neck. “PA! JONATHAN! IT’S LOTUS!” he yelled, sobbing.

“Nuh . . . nuh . . . n-no . . . . ” Lotus tried to speak through bleeding and swollen lips. She stared up at Joe, her good eye round with sheer terror. Clutching the tattered remains of her clothing closer to her body, she tried to scuttle away.

“L-Lotus . . . it’s me . . . Joe C-Cartwright,” Joe said, his voice shaking with shock and outrage. “Please . . . I won’t hurt you . . . . ”

“J-Joe?”

“Yes, Lotus,” he knelt down, bringing himself closer to eye level. “It’s me! Joe Cartwright!”

Lotus stared at him dazed for a long moment, then burst into tears.

Joe slowly, carefully moved toward her. When he, after what seemed an eternity, reached her side, he carefully put his arms around her, with the intention of offering comfort and reassurance. Her body was ice cold. He could feel it through his clothing, as well as where his hands came into direct contact with flesh. Though Lotus made no move to resist, he could feel her body going rigid.

“Joe?” Ben was the first to come into view, followed a scant second later by Jonathan.

“She’s been hurt bad, Pa,” Joe murmured, numb with shock and horror.

“Get her into the wagon,” Ben ordered, shaken himself by the sight of Lotus O’Toole’s bruised and bleeding body.

“We gonna take her back to town, Mister Cartwright?” Jonathan asked.

Ben shook his head. “The Ponderosa’s closer,” he said. “I’ll send one of the men to town for the doctor.”

 

Ben sat on the settee next to his youngest son, feeling more helpless than he could remember ever having felt in his entire life. After they had settled Lotus O’Toole in the guest room upstairs, and sent Candy back to town to fetch Doctor Martin, Joe had walked down the steps and collapsed onto the settee, without a word. Ben had tried to coax Joe into opening up, and giving vent to the feelings of grief and rage that almost certainly had to be building. Joe said nothing. He sat there, hands folded in his lap, staring at the fire in the fire place in a complete daze. Ben found himself wishing that Joe would go on a rampage . . . that he would scream, cry, demolish the furniture; anything but this terrible silence.

The soft sound of footfalls descending the stairs drew Ben’s attention away from Joe. It was Doctor Martin, his eyes round with horrified astonishment and face several shades paler than normal. Ben rose stiffly and walked over to meet the doctor at the bottom of the steps.

“My God, Ben,” the doctor murmured, his voice barely audible. “How can one human being inflict such . . . such injury on another?”

“Paul, what happened to her?” Ben asked, casting a furtive, sidelong glance at Joe still seated on the settee, staring into the flames.

“She was tortured, Ben . . . and . . . and worse,” the doctor said, his voice shaking. “She’s also got several broken ribs, her right leg is broken, and her left hand . . . . ” He broke off for a moment to regain a measure of control. “I . . . there’s a good chance I may have to amputate.”

Ben closed his eyes, and reached out for the banister for support.

“ . . . and those are only the injuries I can see,” Paul said, his face a mask of utter and complete despair. “God only knows how badly injured she is inside.” The doctor fell silent a moment, laboring to compose himself. “She’s also suffering from frostbite and exposure,” he continued. “Miss O’Toole was more than likely out in that field most of the night.”

Tossed there, and probably left for dead, given her physical condition. Ben felt very ill.

“I’ve given her a strong sedative,” Paul Martin continued. “She’ll sleep through until tomorrow morning, but someone should stay with her. Hop Sing’s with her now, but when she wakes up . . . given the circumstances of her injuries, I’d strongly recommend you have a woman here to care for her.” He paused. “My wife, Lily, said she’d be more than willing to help out. I can personally vouch for her expertise in the field of nursing. There’s also Gretchen Braun, her daughter, Heidi, and Winnie Patterson. All three of them are able and capable nurses.”

Ben nodded. “Would you mind making arrangements with them?”

“Not at all, Ben,” Paul promised. “I’ll be back after supper to look in on Miss O’Toole. I’ll bring Lily back with me.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Ben said gratefully.

“As I said, I’ve given her a very strong sedative . . . strong enough so that she’ll sleep through the night,” Paul reiterated. “I’ve left further instructions with Hop Sing.”

“Paul, is she . . . . ” Ben closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. “What are Miss O’Toole’s chances of . . . of surviving what happened to her?”

“Hard to say, Ben,” the doctor said somberly. “Her injuries are very serious. When you also take into account the fact of having spent the night outside in . . . in the near altogether . . . and given the kind of life she’s led since the deaths of her parents and grandparents, she, like as not, wasn’t in the best of health going into all this . . . . ” Paul’s voice trailed off to an ominous silence. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “Even so,” he resumed, “if it was simply a matter of binding physical wounds, I could give you a guarded yes, she has a chance of making it.

“However, what . . . happened to her . . . is NEVER simply a matter of physical injury,” Paul continued slowly, earnestly. “It’s a brutal violation of soul and spirit that’s far more devastating than physical pain.”

“H-how does that . . . affect her prognosis, Paul?” Ben voiced the question, all the while dreading the answer.

“Ben, I’ve seen many women, who have gone through what Miss O’Toole has . . . without suffering even a fraction of the other physical injuries, but died not long after, because they just plain and simply could not muster the wherewithal to go on living,” Paul said grimly.

“Is there no hope, then, Paul?” Ben asked. “No hope at all?”

“All I can give you with regard to prognosis, Ben, is a simple I don’t know,” the doctor said quietly. “As for hope, every moment Miss O’Toole remains alive is reason for hope. I wish I could give you a more definite answer.”

“I understand,” Ben said. “We’ll just have to take it moment by moment, then.”

“I need to head on back to town,” Paul said. “See you after supper.”

“Thanks again, Paul, for everything,” Ben said as he saw the doctor to the door.

“P-Pa?”

A strangled, barely audible voice from the sofa fell on Ben’s ears like a dynamite blast. He turned, and glanced over at Joe, anxiety mingled with grave concern. “Yes, Joe?” he prompted quietly.

“I . . . I heard what Doc Martin said . . . . ” Joe continued, his voice breaking. “Pa, what kind of . . . of monster do we have living among us . . . . ?” The remainder of his question was drowned in a torrent of fierce weeping. Ben was at his youngest son’s side in an instant, wrapping his arms tight around the younger man’s shoulders. Joe, for the first time in many years, buried his face against his father’s shoulder and wept.

 

Meanwhile, Candy took Jonathan Smith in hand, fetching bed linens and towel from the armoire cabinet in the bunk house, where all the single hired hands slept.

“That top bunk’s mine,” Candy said affably, pointing to the bunk beds set against the windowless north wall, “and the one under it’s taken by my good friend, Derek Welles. That one . . . . ” he turned and pointed to the bunk bed nearest the door, “is occupied by the Harris brothers. The other beds against that wall are also taken, but the rest are all pretty much up for grabs.”

“In that case, I’ll take the one over here,” Jonathan pointed to the unoccupied bed against the west wall, apart from all the other occupied beds.

“I hope you’re not the anti-social type,” Candy teased with a grin.

“Only at bedtime,” Jonathan quipped. “Y’ see . . . I snore louder than a lowing sick cow.”

“Gotta give you credit for being the first man I’ve ever heard come right out and admit it,” Candy said, with a wry roll of his eyes. “Mister Cartwright told me that he expects you to join the family for supper tonight,” he continued, “served promptly at eight. You’d better be on time, or you’ll have to answer to Hop Sing . . . and THAT, My Friend, could get very, very ugly.”

“Thanks, Mister Canaday, I’ll remember that.”

“The name’s Candy.”

“Candy,” Jonathan repeated the name, as he placed an unbleached cotton duffle bag, half full, on top of his bunk.

“I can see you’re the kind of man who likes to travel light,” Candy remarked, his eyes straying to the duffle bag.

“My needs are generally few and very simple,” Jonathan said with an indifferent shrug.

“You’ll have the rest of the day to relax and get yourself settled in,” Candy said. “I’d take full advantage of the relax part, too, if I were you. Tomorrow, you’ll be hard at work starting at sun-up.” He grinned. “See you at supper, Jonathan.”

Jonathan had his few belongings unpacked and put away in very short order. A glance at the clock, hanging on the wall facing the door, told him he had several hours free and clear before supper. He stepped out of the bunk house, with the intention of taking a brief stroll, to begin acquainting himself with the house and immediate surrounding grounds.

“Mister Smith.” It was Ben Cartwright, stepping out onto the front porch. “How’s the settling in?”

“Done,” Jonathan replied.

“Already?” Ben queried, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “You work fast.”

“I travel light, Mister Cartwright,” Jonathan said. “No point in hauling around a bunch of things I’ll never use, and it makes the packing and unpacking go a lot quicker.” He fell silent for a moment. “How’s . . . Miss O’Toole doing?” he ventured cautiously.

Ben told him what Doctor Martin had said.

Jonathan had seen the devastating results of the harm human beings were capable of inflicting on one another. The American Civil War had kept him and Tess very busy, with their missions of healing and reconciliation more often than not overlapping one another. He had seen human bodies shot, stabbed, bayoneted, and blown apart by cannon fire. He had worked with many of the survivors of all those bloody battles, their bodies scarred and mutilated, often missing limbs, their souls shattered almost beyond repair. Not even that had adequately prepared him for seeing the wounds inflicted on Lotus O’Toole’s body and soul.

“I . . . understand Miss O’Toole has a son,” Jonathan said slowly, staring at the barn. He thought he detected movement.

“Yes, a little boy named Timmy, age six,” Ben replied. “He’s a very bright little boy. He just started first grade a few weeks ago, and he enjoys every minute of it.”

“Does Timmy know . . . about his ma?”

Ben shook his head. “He’s been with my older son, Hoss, and daughter, Stacy, down at the corral for most of the afternoon,” he replied. “They should be coming back--- ”

Jonathan’s ears picked up the sound of two approaching horses.

“That must be them now,” Ben said. “Come on, Mister Smith. You can meet the rest of my family.”

Hoss and Stacy, riding their mounts Chubb and Blaze Face respectively, approached from behind the barn. Timmy rode on Chubb, seated in front of Hoss. Ben walked over to greet them, with Jonathan following close at his heels.

“Hey, Pa . . . Li’l Brother,” Hoss greeted the pair as he and Stacy dismounted. “Any luck findin’ . . . . ” He frowned, as he got a good, close look at Jonathan. “Hey! You ain’t my brother!”

“The resemblance is almost scary,” Stacy quipped with a warm smile. “Howdy,” she greeted Jonathan with extended hand. “I’m Stacy Cartwright.”

“Jonathan Smith,” he said shaking her hand.

“I’m Hoss Cartwright,” Hoss affably introduced himself. He shook hands with Jonathan, then turned to help Timmy O’Toole down from Chubb’s saddle.

“Stacy, why don’t you and Jonathan tend to the horses,” Ben said. “Hoss, Timmy, come on inside, I have something to tell you . . . . ”

“Someone’s found Miss O’Toole,” Stacy said, taking Blaze Face by the reins.

Jonathan took hold of Chubb and followed Stacy into the barn. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he confirmed, looking over at her in mild surprise. “How did you know?”

“The look on Pa’s face,” Stacy replied, removing her saddle. “I don’t think the news is good either.”

“No, it’s not,” Jonathan said. He had already removed the saddle and blanket from Chubb’s back. “Your pa, Joe, and I found her in the meadow along the road from Virginia City. She was hurt pretty bad.”

“She’s not going to die . . . is she?” Stacy asked, her eyes round as saucers.

“I don’t--- ” He turned, his eyes falling on the open barn door. There, standing framed in the door, stood Andrew, fashionably clad in a gray flannel suit, white shirt, and navy blue tie. Jonathan scowled.

“Mister Smith . . . . ” Stacy looked over at him, bewildered, then to the spot where his eyes were fixed. “W-What are you staring at?” Though she saw nothing, she did sense a presence. She shuddered as an ice cold chill shot down the entire length of her spine.

 _“Don’t worry, Jonathan. Stacy Cartwright can’t see or hear me,” Andrew said gravely._

 _“Maybe so, but she DOES sense your presence,”_ Jonathan communicated silently. _“What are you doing here anyway?”_

 _“I am needed,” Andrew said simply. With that, he turned heel and walked resolutely toward the house._

 _“Come on, Boss,”_ Jonathan implored silently, _“have a heart. That woman has her whole life ahead of her . . . and she’s got a little boy who needs her. Please don’t take her now.” ___

That evening, supper was served promptly at eight o’clock. Hop Sing had wisely decided to prepare a lighter fare, consisting of a chop suey made from leftovers, and a salad of raw spinach, carrots, cucumbers, and onions grown in a large patch of garden he maintained outside the kitchen door.

Joe Cartwright, his eyes still red and swollen, had declined supper, opting instead to turn in early. As he watched his younger son slowly, almost reluctantly climb the steps, Ben made a mental note to ask Paul Martin to look in on him when he stopped by later to check on Lotus O’Toole.

Candy and Hoss ate with their usual good appetites, with the latter trying to coax young Timmy O’Toole into eating. Timmy forced himself to eat a few bites, to please his friend, Mister Hoss, but it was clear his heart was not in his dinner. Ben also ate, more from habit and knowing it was necessary in order to maintain his own strength, than from desire or appetite. Stacy took a few reluctant bites of food, but pushed the majority of it into a pasty greenish-brown mass on her plate.

“Pa,” Stacy, at length, broke the long, strained silence that had settled over family and guests like a pall. “May I please be excused? I have some homework to finish.”

 _“Go ahead, Stacy,” Ben quietly gave her permission to leave the table. “I’ll look in on you before bedtime.”_

Stacy nodded mutely, then left.

“Timmy, I think it’s time we git you ready for bed,” Hoss said, knowing the boy wasn’t going to eat any more food.

“Can’t I see Ma, Mister Hoss, please?” Timmy begged. “Pretty please?”

“Doc Martin’ll be back soon to check up on your ma,” Hoss said. He took Timmy by the hand and led him through the living room toward the steps. “We’ll check with him, an’ see what he says.”

“Ok, Mister Hoss,” Timmy agreed sadly.

A few moments later, the sound of a buggy, drawn by a single horse was heard out in front of the house. “That must be Paul now,” Ben said rising.

“Thanks for dinner, Mister Cartwright,” Jonathan said, as he and Candy also rose from the table. He looked around for Hop Sing, but couldn’t find him. “Would you mind giving my compliments to the chef?”

Ben managed a wan smile, as they stepped through the front door, out onto the porch. “I’ll be glad to, Mister Smith,” he said.

“Unless you need me for anything, I’m going to go ahead and turn in,” Jonathan said. “Candy’s told me I’ve got a long, hard day ahead of me tomorrow.”

“You do,” Candy agreed. “So do I. Goodnight, Mister Cartwright. I’m going to turn in myself.”

Ben bade Candy and Jonathan good night, then turned his attention to Paul and Lily Martin, arriving in their buggy. He gallantly helped Lily down from her seat, and grabbed her overnight bag from the floor in front.

“Thank you for coming out, Lily,” Ben said gratefully. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help out, Ben, you know that,” Lily said. She turned and cast a quick, furtive glance over in the direction of her husband, noting with satisfaction that he seemed wholly intent on removing his jacket and his black bag from the back seat of their conveyance. “Don’t tell Paul this,” she added, taking great care to lower her voice, “but in all honesty, I’m going to feel a lot safer being out at the Ponderosa tonight than I would staying in town.”

“How’s Miss O’Toole doing, Ben?” Paul asked, falling in step along side his wife and the Cartwright family patriarch.

“Hop Sing told me a little while ago she started running a fever,” Ben said gravely.

“That’s to be expected,” the doctor said.

“Hoss wanted me to ask you, if it would be possible for Timmy to see his mother for a few minutes,” Ben said. He opened the front door, and gestured for the Martins to enter. “I know she’s badly bruised and battered, but I think it might do the boy good just to see her and know that she is here safe with us.”

“I agree, Ben,” Paul said. “Even though she’s sleeping, I think it’ll do Miss O’Toole good as well. There’s a theory out there that says the hearing’s the last thing to go, whether it be fall asleep or even die. According to that theory, Miss O’Toole can probably still hear the sound of her little boy’s voice, no matter how deeply she’s sleeping.”

Ben nodded. “After you see Miss O’Toole, would you do me a favor and look in on Joe? He was hit pretty hard by what happened to her.”

“Sure thing, Ben.”

Ben escorted the Martins to the guest bedroom, then returned to the great room downstairs to wait. As he settled himself comfortably on the settee, his thoughts drifted back to the day he and Hop Sing took Little Joe to the school house in Virginia City for the first time . . . .

 _Though Marie, his wife and the boy’s mother, had been dead for a little more than a year by that time, young Joe still felt her absence very keenly. He hung back from the other children, clinging to Ben’s hand for dear life, until Lotus O’Toole arrived with her mother Kuan O’Toole and maternal grandmother, Lei Ling._

 _Little Joe shyly approached Lei Ling, bowed, and offered a formal greeting in halting Chinese. The venerable old woman was visibly moved by the young American boy’s show of respect and his honest attempts at communication. She, in turn introduced Joe, Ben, and Hop Sing to her daughter and granddaughter, with Hop Sing serving as translator. Young Lotus was fluent in English and Chinese, speaking both with the very pronounced Irish brogue she had learned from her father, Sean O’Toole._

 _At recess, later on that afternoon, Little Joe Cartwright stepped in to defend the honor of Lotus O’Toole by mopping up the school yard with Billy Caine, a second grader who stood half a head taller. Billy insisted on changing Lotus’ name to the ethnic slurs, referencing the nationalities of both her parents._

 _That was the start of a friendship that would endure for the better part of the next twenty years. At the age of fifteen, Lotus O’Toole was forced leave school one year shy of graduation, and go to work at the Silver Dollar Saloon, when her parents and maternal grandparents were killed in a fire that destroyed most of Virginia City’s Chinese section._

 

“Pa?”

The sound of his daughter’s voice drew Ben from memory back to the present. Stacy stood beside the settee, her school books in hand, with nearly the same look of numbing shock and horror on her face, that he had seen on Joe’s earlier, when they had initially brought Lotus O’Toole to the Ponderosa.

“What happened . . . t-to Miss O’Toole?” she ventured hesitantly.

Ben dreaded having to answer this question most of all. “Sit down, Stacy,” he invited quietly, gesturing to the place next to him on the sofa.

Stacy sat down and placed her books on the coffee table in front of the sofa and looked over at Ben expectantly.

Ben took a deep breath and told her, sparing her the more lurid details.

“Oh my God,” Stacy whispered, her entire body trembling. “My God!” She fell silent for long moment, unable to speak. At length, she turned to Ben and said, “I . . . I hope Sheriff Coffee catches the bloody ****!”

The word was Paiute. Ben knew from it’s clipped syllables, almost spat rather than spoken, that the word had to be an obscenity, and a most vile one at that. “I agree with you completely,” he said soberly.

Stacy looked over at him in surprise.

“Some words need no translation,” Ben assured her.

“Pa, would you mind riding with me to and from school, at least for the next few days?” Stacy asked.

“I was about to make that suggestion myself,” Ben said.

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said. “Whoever hurt Miss O’Toole is still out there, running around loose! That scares me! It also makes me mad, because I have to be afraid.”

“You having to be afraid makes ME angry, too,” Ben said, slipping his arms around her. Stacy leaned against him, drawing comfort and strength from his embrace. Ben didn’t tell her how much he was afraid for her.

 

Doctor Martin, with the able assistance of his wife, gave the somnolent Lotus O’Toole a cursory examination and changed her bandages. Although a rise in body temperature was an expected consequence given her extensive injuries, her fever seemed to be climbing too high, too fast. After sending Lilly down to ask Hop Sing if it might be possible to brew up the herbal poultice he used to treat fevers, and to get cold water and a cloth, he allowed Hoss to bring Timmy in for a few minutes.

“Your ma’s sound asleep,” Hoss whispered to the boy. “You c’n talk to her, but she ain’t gonna talk back.”

“Can she h-hear me?” Timmy asked.

“I believe she can, Timmy,” the doctor replied.

Timmy walked over close to the side of the bed and leaned down to whisper in his mother’s ear, “It’s me, Ma. It’s Timmy. I love you, Ma. I love you very much.” For a brief moment, the boy thought he saw his mother’s lips curve upward, ever so slightly.

“Come on, Timmy, time t’ be getting you into bed,” Hoss urged gently.

Timmy nodded, and after whispering a good night in his mother’s ear, turned and left the room with Hoss.

 

“Ben?” It was Doctor Martin, his face a curious mixture of weariness, misery, and discouragement.

“I think . . . I’d better turn in, Pa,” Stacy said, taking her cue from the doctor’s hesitancy. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Stacy,” Ben hugged her again and kissed her forehead.

The doctor waited until Stacy was safely upstairs. “I . . . won’t be returning to Virginia City tonight, Ben,” Paul said somberly. “Miss O’Toole’s running a very high fever. I’ve given her medicines, and asked Hop Sing to make up that poultice of his, but nothing seems to be working.” He paused. “If we can’t stop her fever from rising . . . . ” His voice trailed into an ominous silence.

Ben sank back down onto the sofa, feeling like he had just taken a hard blow to his solar plexus. At length, he looked up, meeting the physician’s eyes. “Paul? Is there anything I can do?” he asked in a voice barely audible. “Anything at all?”

“Yes, Ben, there is,” Paul said. “You can pray.”

 

 _It was a most curious dream. Lotus O’Toole had spent most of the evening standing at the foot of a strange, large bed, looking down at a very tiny, very fragile woman’s body. She stared in horror at the swollen, battered face and the left hand, mangled beyond all recognition as such. Lotus wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could possibly endure such pain, yet remain alive. Though the woman’s agony burned from a distant place, she, nevertheless, felt it very keenly._

 _Lotus watched as first Hop Sing tended to the injured woman, followed by the kindly white haired woman who carefully and gently applied herbal poultices and bathed her forehead with cold water. Hop Sing and the kindly woman spoke, but Lotus could not make out their words. They were garbled somehow, indistinct. She recognized Doctor Martin, of course, and realized somewhat belatedly that the white haired woman must be his wife. Lotus knew this poor woman, almost swallowed whole by the enormous bed on which she was lying, was in the best possible hands. The doctor and his wife were good, kind people. They were wonderful to her when her son was born._

 _She watched as the doctor rose, and opened the bedroom door to admit Hoss Cartwright and Timmy. “Hoss . . . Hop sing . . . of course! This must be the Ponderosa.” Lotus had spoken aloud, but no one in the room seemed to have heard her. She watched, bemused and puzzled, as Timmy left Hoss’ side and walked over to the woman lying on the bed._

“It’s me, Ma. It’s Timmy. I love you, Ma. I love you very much.”

 _Lotus heard her son’s words very clearly._

“Good night, Ma. I love you.”

 _Again, though the words were softly whispered, Lotus heard every one, clearly enunciated as she had taught him to speak. In that moment, she realized, much to her horrified astonishment, that the battered woman lying on the bed was none other than herself. There was a flurry of movement. Timmy left the room with Hoss. For a brief, panic stricken moment, she wanted desperately to run after them, to tell Timmy she loved him too, very much, to give him one more hug. Her feet and legs refused to budge. All she could do was stand there and watch helplessly as Hoss led Timmy from the room._

 _“Lotus O’Toole?”_

 _Lotus started violently at the sound of her own name. She turned and saw a young man by all appearances, with hair the color of sand and the kindest, most compassionate blue eyes she had ever seen set within the frame of a human face._

 _“My name is Andrew.”_

 _Lotus turned slowly, almost reluctantly and looked back at the tiny, frail shell lying on the bed before her. “You’re an angel of death, aren’t you.” It was a statement, not an inquiry._

 _“Yes, Ma’am.”_

 _Lotus was astonished to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. “One question?”_

 _“Yes, Ma’am?”_

 _“What about my boy, Timmy?”_

 _“Timmy will be in good hands, Lotus. Very good hands! Through out the rest of his life, he will be surrounded by people . . . and angels . . . who will love and care for him,” Andrew promised. “They will never stop letting him know how much his mother loves him.”_

 _“Thank you, Andrew,” Lotus sobbed. “I . . . am ready to go with you now.”_

 _The bed, the woman, the Martins, and the bedroom all seemed to vanish in a burst of white light. It was the most brilliant white light Lotus had ever seen, yet was not blinding. She felt a sense of warmth and peace steal over her, and love. So much love, more than she could remember having felt in her whole life. Lotus peered into the light. She could barely make out four shadowy human forms moving toward her._

 _“Lotus, come,” it was her mother, clad in the same brilliant white as the light, reaching out to her. Behind her mother stood her father and her maternal grandparents, all reaching out arms to welcome her._

 _Lotus took hold of Andrew’s hand and led the way into the light._

 

“Ben?”

Ben’s eyes snapped open. He had obviously fallen asleep on the settee, though for the life of him, he could not remember having dozed off. He immediately sat up, bracing himself for the worst.

The worst was not long in coming. “She’s gone, Ben,” Paul Martin said very softly, very sadly.

 

The following morning, Ben and Stacy, riding Big Buck and Blaze Face respectively, left early for the school house in Virginia City, to allow the former time to speak with Miss Tess. This morning was like many other mornings before in Virginia City, and would be as many mornings to come. Shop keepers opened their stores and worked diligently to set up their wares on the sidewalks as enticement for the casual person passing by. The post office was already open, as was the bank. George could be seen hurrying along the sheltered walkway toward the telegraph office. Lucas Milburn, Ben’s lawyer, and Sheriff Roy Coffee called out their greetings and waved, as Ben and Stacy passed.

Ben scanned the faces of the people, filling the streets and walkways, all going about their daily routine. Up until yesterday morning, he took it for granted that Virginia City was a warm and friendly place, her people neighbors and friends. Today, one of those placid, neighborly faces, intent on whatever business lay at hand, smiling and chatting with his neighbors, concealed a monster. Virginia City was no longer warm and friendly, it was strange and alien. As he and Stacy rode down Main Street toward the school house, Ben was struck by the large number of strange, unfamiliar faces among the populace of Virginia City.

The Cartwrights reached the school house before any of the other students and parents had arrived, as Ben had hoped they would. They tethered their horses at the nearby hitching post and started across the school yard.

“Good morning, Stacy,” Miss Tess looked up form the open book on her desk, as father and daughter entered the classroom. She rose, offering her hand to Ben. “You must be Stacy’s father.”

“Yes, I am,” Ben replied, shaking her hand. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she had been expecting them. “Ben Cartwright, Ma’am.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Cartwright.”

“Please call me Ben.”

“Alright, Ben. Most folks call me Tess,” the teacher said warmly. “I, uh take it you’re here to tell me about Timmy’s ma?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ben said, looking puzzled. “I didn’t realize the news had gotten out so soon.”

“A . . . friend told me,” Tess said quietly. “I understand that Timmy will be staying with you at the Ponderosa for awhile?”

“I told her that, Pa,” Stacy said, noting the shocked, bewildered look on Ben’s face. “You know Hoss!”

“Yes, indeed,” Ben nodded.

“Please tell Timmy I’m real sorry to hear about his ma,” Tess said quietly. “And if there’s anything I can do for Timmy, or for you and your family, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Miss Tess,” Ben said, addressing her as his daughter did. Although the woman before him appeared to be around his own age, maybe a trifle younger, he just could not bring himself to call her simply Tess. To do so would be tantamount to calling his mother or worse, his grandmother, by their first names. “As for delivering your condolence message, you’re more than welcome to come by the house and deliver it in person. I think Timmy might appreciate a visit.”

Tess smiled. “I’ll do that, Ben,” she promised. “This afternoon, after school’s out.”

“You’re welcome to stay for supper, too if you’d like, Miss Tess,” Ben added.

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” Tess replied. “I’d like that very much.”

Stacy looked from her father, to Miss Tess, and then back to her father, wondering why that Bible verse about folks entertaining angels unaware kept flitting through her mind.

 

A sunbeam shining through a sliver of an opening in the curtains, covering the only window in Hoss Cartwright’s bedroom, fell on Timmy O’Toole’s face. Its warmth and brightness gently roused him from a light slumber. He opened his eyes, and glanced around in bewilderment, not knowing where he was exactly. He turned and saw his friend, Mister Hoss, snoring blissfully in the bed beside him. Then, like the sudden rush of water from a bursting dam, he remembered.

“Ma!” Timmy cried as he abruptly sat up.

“Timmy?”

“Mister Hoss, can I see Ma?” he begged. “Please?”

Hoss gently shook his head to rouse himself from sleep. He wished, more than he had wished for anything in his life, that he didn’t have to be the one to tell Timmy. But his pa had already taken Stacy on to school, and though Joe presumably still slept in his own room down the hall, Hoss had no way of knowing what state his younger brother would be in upon waking. “Timmy,” he said quietly, “your ma’s in heaven.”

“NO!” Timmy yelled. “NO!” Before Hoss could make a move to stop him, the boy jumped down from the bed and ran out into the corridor. Hoss rose, and followed. Timmy tore down the hall to the room where he had visited his mother last night. He threw open the door and bolted inside. There, he found the bed unmade, a bowl of water and a cloth on the night table, bloodied bandages and discarded cheesecloth poultices. His mother was gone.

“Timmy . . . . ” It was Mister Hoss, kneeling down, his arms open. He looked like he was about to cry himself.

With a strangled cry, Timmy threw himself into Hoss’ open arms and buried his face against Hoss’ massive shoulder, and cried.

 

“Miss Tyler, I need to ask you some questions.” Roy Coffee sat with Sally Tyler in Sam’s office, at the Silver Dollar Saloon. “Some of ‘em may be upsetting. I want to apologize for that.”

“I don’t care so much about that, Sheriff Coffee,” Sally said grimly. “I just hope you catch whoever done what he done to Lotus.”

“Has anyone been giving Miss O’Toole any trouble lately?”

“By trouble, do you mean botherin’ her, makin’ threats, stuff like that?”

Roy nodded.

“No more ‘n the usual kind o’ stuff,” Sally replied.

Roy frowned. “What do you mean by the usual kind o’ stuff?” he asked.

“Men grabbin’ an’ touchin’ . . . . ” Sally blushed, “you know . . . huggin’ and kissin’ us . . . tryin’ to talk us into goin’ upstairs . . . when WE don’t want to.” She sighed. “In this business, all that kinda goes along with the territory. All of us know that. Lotus knew it, too. Most o’ the men are pretty liquored up when they do n’ say all those things, so it ain’t like they really mean it. But once in a while a man comes in whut’s scary.”

“Has . . . Miss O’Toole been having trouble with one of the scary ones recently?” Roy asked, feeling oddly contrite.

“Yes ‘n no, Sheriff,” Sally answered. “About six months ago, Judge Caine kept comin’ ‘round, tryin’ t’ take up with Lotus.”

“Judge William Caine?!” Roy said, looking incredulous. Though the man had a streak of ruthless ambition a mile wide running up his back and back down through his insides, he was not known for romantic liaisons or dalliances. In fact, he eschewed such behavior.

“Yes, Judge Caine!” Sally declared heatedly. “He always snuck up the alley an’ in through the back door, but it was him, just the same.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Tyler, I don’t doubt you, I just find it . . . surprising, that’s all,” Roy said.

“I’m sure you do, Sheriff,” Sally said in a cold, angry tone.

“Miss Tyler, you got no reason to lie to me,” Roy said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “In fact, you got every reason, NOT to lie. You wanna see the man who killed Miss O’Toole caught as much as I do, if not more. I know that.”

Sally nodded, accepting his words. “Lotus never told what the judge said,” she continued. “She was private like that. Y’ know, she never told no one who her boy’s pa is?”

“I know . . . she didn’t.”

“Like I said, Lotus was private like that,” Sally continued. “But, she was afraid o’ Judge Caine, Sheriff. I could tell by the look in her eyes . . . it was the look of a trapped animal, knowin’ it can’t escape. Anyways, after the judge made it known he was bein’ considered t’ be a FEDERAL judge, he quit comin’ around.”

“Do you know whether or not he’d been giving her trouble away from the Silver Dollar?”

“I s’pose it’s possible,” Sally said. “Anything’s possible. But Lotus never said anything about it.”

“Is there anyone else that you know of who might’ve wished Miss O’Toole harm, or had threatened her?”

Sally dolefully shook her head.

“No one who might’ve wished to harm Timmy?”

“Absolutely not!” Sally declared emphatically. “Sam an’ the gals here dote on the li’l fella . . . even Laurie Lee, an’ Jenna Wilkes, before she got herself hitched.” She fell silent for a moment thinking. “I don’t think anyone in here in town wouldda hurt ‘im either. True, there’s a lotta folks that wouldn’t let their kids play with Timmy, ‘cause his ma ain’t married ‘n all . . . but for the life o’ me, I can’t picture anyone actually wantin’ to hurt ‘im.”

“Thank you, Miss Tyler,” Roy said as they rose together, in unison. “If you happen to think o’ somethin’ else, no matter how small or even silly, please let me know.”

“I will, Sheriff,” Sally promised. “Would you mind doin’ me a favor?”

“Be more ‘n happy to oblige, Miss Tyler,” Roy agreed. “What can I do fer ya?”

“Lotus left a few things with me to keep safe,” Sally explained. “That shack she an’ Timmy lived in on Blood Alley’s not whut anybody’d call secure. It was real important for her to git Timmy livin’ out from under the roof o’ this saloon. She was right ‘bout that. A saloon’s no place for a kid t’ be livin’. Anyways, she had a few things she felt safer leavin’ with me instead o’ keepin’ in that shack. If you can wait a minute, I’ll run up t’ my room ‘n fetch ‘em.”

“I’ll be out in the saloon, Miss Tyler.”

Sally returned a few moments later, carrying a small jewelry box of ivory, ornately carved in the flowing Oriental style. She also had a small leather bound book, a statue of a Chinese woman carved from jade, and three cracked and fading photographs. “Here y’ are, Sheriff. These things oughtta to go to Timmy.”

“Thank you, Miss Tyler, I’ll see that he gets this,” Roy promised.

“Wouldja mind doin’ me another favor, Sheriff Coffee?” Sally asked. “Next time you’re out at the Ponderosa, wouldja tell Timmy his Aunt Sally was askin’ ‘bout ‘im?”

“I’ll do that,” Roy promised.

 

“Hey, you! Miss High-‘n-Mighty Cartwright!”

It was Abel Caine, again.

“Stacy, ignore him!” her friend, Molly hissed.  
In the normal course of things, Stacy did just that. Abel heckled and teased to get attention. Her best offense and revenge was to just ignore him. He usually went off to pick on someone else, or find someplace private to sulk. However neither yesterday nor today fit into the normal course of things.

“I heard your pa ‘n brothers got that slut out at the Ponderosa,” Abel continued, his lips twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Abel, shut-up!” Stacy rounded on him furiously.

“I’ll bet she’s givin’ your pa ‘n brothers all kinds o’ jollies.”

“Abel, I told you to shut your mouth!”

“Everyone knows all about YOUR pa and ma, Miss High-‘n-Mighty,” Abel heckled. “How much you wanna bet maybe yer pa’s also li’l Timmy’s pa?”

Stacy responded with a swift hard right cross. The force of her blow sent her tormentor to the ground, flat on his back. She, then, turned and started to walk away.

Abel scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and with surprising swiftness, tackled Stacy bringing her down to the ground so hard, she could feel the breath leaving her body. Taking full advantage of her momentary insensibility, Abel scrambled to his feet and kicked her in the side as hard as he could.

Stacy could almost hear her ribs crack. The pain, however, acted as a bucket of ice water in her face, bringing her back to full consciousness. She saw him swing back his leg to kick her again, and managed to dodge the intended blow. In less time than it takes for eyes to blink, Stacy kicked Abel’s knee while he was off balance, once more bringing him to the ground. His entire body twisted as he fell, causing him to land on his stomach. A sudden burst of adrenalin erased the agonizing pain in her torso. Stacy leapt on her opponent, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back as far and as hard as she possibly could.

“Take it back, you cheap bag of sheep dip!” Stacy said through clenched teeth. “You take every last word back, do you hear me?”

“NO!” Abel screamed.

“Take it back, or I swear, I’ll break your arm right here . . . right now!” She twisted it even further to prove she meant business.

“Ok, ok!” Abel half sobbed. “I take it all back. Everything I said about Timmy, his ma, your ma and pa, and your brothers.”

Satisfied, Stacy let of his arm and rose. “For your information, Abel Caine, Miss O’Toole DIED last night,” she said, her entire body trembling with pent up fury. “If I EVER hear you speak ill of the dead again, so help me, as God is my witness, the next time, I WILL twist your arm off.”

“Stacy Cartwright, Abel Caine, I want both of you to come into the school house with me right now!” It was Miss Tess, standing at the edge of the circle, made of classmates gathered to watch the fight. Her straight posture, with hands firmly on hips lent her an intimidating, imposing air. The other children meekly scattered after getting a look at the stern, angry glare on her face.

Miss Tess abruptly turned heel and walked resolutely toward the school house, with Stacy and Abel following behind like a pair of whipped puppy dogs.

“She started it, Miss Tess,” Abel declared the minute the trio had crossed the threshold into the school house. “She hit me first.”

“If I had it to do over, I’d do it again, too,” Stacy spat, glaring at Abel with utter contempt.

“I don’t need either one of you telling me what happened, I saw and heard everything,” Tess said sternly. “Abel, on my desk you will find a piece of soap and a washcloth. You will march up there right now, take the soap and wash cloth, then go out to the water pump and wash out that filthy mouth.”

Abel and Stacy both looked over at their teacher in stupefied disbelief.

“I said NOW, Abel.”

“Y-yes, Ma’am,” Abel ran to the teacher’s desk and grabbed the soap and wash cloth.  
Tess waited until Abel had gone out to the water pump. The snickers and titters of the other children told her that the boy was following her instructions to the letter. “As for you, Stacy, why didn’t you tell me about the way he’s been hassling you today and yesterday?”

The adrenalin dissipated, leaving Stacy in agony and short of breath. “I’m not a tattle tale, Ma’am,” she replied breathlessly.

“You’re to be commended for that, Baby,” Tess said gently. “At the same time, you’ve got to realize there IS a time and place to tell someone else what’s going on. The things Abel Caine said yesterday and today about the O’Tooles and your family go ‘way beyond the usual insults and taunts in the school yard. There was something vicious and mean about it. You know as well as I do there was a whole different feel to Abel’s heckling yesterday and today.”

Stacy nodded. “That’s why I hit him,” she said.

“That’s the kind of thing that needs to be brought to my attention,” Tess said. “There’s something going on with him that needs to be nipped in the bud. I’m really good at nippin’ things in the bud, but sometimes I need to be told what’s happening, like everybody else.” She paused. “Only God is omniscient, Baby.”

“I-I’ll try to remember that, Miss Tess.”

“Now you’d better get your books together, Stacy,” Tess said. “Your pa’s going to be here any minute.”

Stacy looked over at her teacher in complete bewilderment. “How can that be?” she asked.

“I got word to a friend of mine, before I stepped in to break up that fight,” Tess replied.  
At that moment, the door opened. Ben entered, his face a mixture of concern and anger. Jonathan followed close behind.

“Ben, Stacy’s going to be fine,” Tess cut right to the heart of the matter, answering Ben’s questions before he had a chance to voice them. “She’s got a couple of fractured ribs, but I daresay, she inflicted a lot more injury, physical and emotional, on her opponent than he did on her.”

“We’re going right over to Doctor Martins office,” Ben said. “Thank you for getting word to me so quickly.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Tess replied. “As for you, Stacy, your homework assignment for tonight is you’re going to tell your pa everything, and I do mean everything. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Stacy said meekly.

 

Jonathan sat on the love seat sized settee in the Martins’ formal parlor, that doubled as a waiting room, with arms folded across his chest and thoughts far away running a mile a minute.

Mister Cartwright and daughter, Stacy, were still with the doctor in his examining room, and probably would be for awhile longer. Tess had been right about the fractured ribs. Jonathan saw that for himself as Stacy winced almost every time she inhaled, and in her rigidly erect posture, even while sitting. Nothing much the doctor could do really, except bind her torso and order her to take it easy.

“Hey, Boss,” Jonathan prayed silently, a bare hint of a smile tweaking the left corner of his mouth, “You know how much energy this kid has, and how little patience. I hope You find it in Yourself to be merciful to her poor pa and brothers, and maybe . . . well, you know, move her healing along a little?”

Jonathan thought he heard the gentle sound of an indulgent chuckle echo through his mind and heart.

“Thanks, Boss, much obliged,” he responded.

His thoughts drifted to Stacy’s opponent in the school yard fracas. According to the reports filed by Tess, since taking on the job of Virginia City’s school marm, Abel Caine tried to tease a rise out of Stacy Cartwright on a daily basis. Most of the taunts centered around what many might consider her tomboyish ways, and the place of respect that the Cartwright Family, especially Ben, had earned over the years among the people of Virginia City. Stacy very pointedly ignored Abel, having correctly discerned early on, that the boy’s whole purpose behind the taunts was to get her attention.

Tess’ take on the matter could be surmised in one word: jealousy.

 

“While you’re with the Cartwrights, you watch ‘em real close, Angel Boy,” Tess exhorted him just prior to his meeting with the family clan’s patriarch at the Silver Dollar Saloon. “A family like that comes along once in a proverbial blue moon. The warmth . . . the love . . . the trust and respect the members of that family have for each other just shines forth like a lighthouse beacon on a dark, stormy night.”

“What do I look for?” Jonathan had asked.

“Angel Boy, I’d expect a question like that from a plebe in his or her first hundred years of training,” Tess admonished him severely, “not from a student with less than a hundred and fifty years to go on his formal training.” She paused briefly, though her glare didn’t waiver in its severity. “Especially not from any protégée of MINE with less than a hundred and fifty years to go on his training.”

“Y-yes, Ma’am,” Jonathan squeaked, feeling every bit the first hundred years plebe.  
Tess sighed and shook her head. “You can see it in the way Joe and Stacy joke around and tease each other,” she said, “the kind and gentle way Hoss has of caring for his pa, his brother, and sister, when they’re sick or injured; in the way Ben hurts when his children hurt, and in the love and pride you see in his eyes and smile when he speaks of their accomplishments. I could go on and on, Jonathan, but it would take me the next one maybe two hundred years to cover everything.”

 

In the short time he had been with the Cartwrights, a scant day and a half now, Jonathan had begun to understand. He could also see with crystal clarity that Abel Caine had no such love and support from his family. Neither he nor Tess as yet had occasion to meet Judge William Caine, or his older son, William Junior. Even so, Jonathan had all too much experience to draw on when it came to reaching his conclusions about Abel. With his musings about Abel Caine came the nebulous, niggling feeling that somewhere, somehow, the judge and his family would have a part to play in this assignment.

The sound of someone knocking on the front door roused Jonathan from his musings. He saw Doctor Martin’s wife, Lily, go to the door. The visitor was Sheriff Coffee, with a small bag in his hands. Lily listened as Roy spoke, then gestured for him to come in.

“Jonathan, I heard Ben was here,” Roy said, looking anxious.

“He and Stacy are in there,” Jonathan inclined his head toward the closed door to the examination room.

“I heard about that school yard brawl between Stacy and the Caine boy,” the sheriff said with a dark, angry scowl. “I don’t know what that boy’s problem is, but NEXT time he’s involved in something like this, so help me, I’m throwing his sorry backside in a jail cell.”

“Am I right in assuming this isn’t the first time Abel Caine’s been involved in something like this?”

Roy Coffee let out a short, curt, exasperated sigh. “It’s all started this past year, since its been made known his pa bein’ considered for federal judge,” he said. “Mind you, the boy’s ALWAYS been somethin’ of a bully! But now . . . . ” the sheriff sighed again and shook his head. “ The Caine boy’s bullyin’ ‘s grown meaner, more vicious. An’ this business of beatin’ up on a girl . . . . ”

The door to the examination room opened. Ben stepped out into the waiting room alone. “Hi, Roy,” he greeted the sheriff with a wan smile, “you’re not here about that fracas between Stacy and the Caine boy, are you?”

“No, but if you want to press charges, Ben . . . . ”

Ben shook his head. “Let it ride for now, Roy,” he said.

“How IS Stacy?” Roy asked.

“Paul said she has a couple of fractured ribs,” Ben said. “He’s fixing her up now. She’s supposed to take it easy for a week or so . . . . ”

“You’ll be lucky if you can get her to take it easy for the next DAY or so,” Roy said in a wry tone. “ ‘Course you, Hoss, Li’l Joe, and Adam, for that matter, are no better!”

Ben laughed. “Thanks a lot, Roy!”

“Anyway, my real reason for comin’ here was to give you this,” Roy placed the bag he had been holding into Ben’s hands. “Miss Tyler at the Silver Dollar’d been holdin’ on to these things for Miss O’Toole for safe keepin’. She asked me to make sure they git to Timmy.”

Ben opened the cloth bag and peered inside. The ivory jewelry box and the jade statue appeared to him to be quite old. The photographs were of Lotus O’Toole just prior to the deaths of her family members, her grandmother, and her parents. “These are probably the only things that survived that fire,” Ben said softly. He closed the bag, and looked up, meeting Roy Coffee’s eyes. “Thank you, Roy. I’ll see that Timmy gets these.”

Stacy emerged from the examination room, walking stiffly erect. Doctor Martin followed behind her.

“You remember what I told you, Stacy. One WEEK! Not one day, one hour, or one minute,” doctor admonished patient very sternly. “One WEEK! You got that?”

“Doctor Martin, this time you won’t get any argument from me,” Stacy said softly.

“Right now, you hurt like the dickens!” Paul said. “You just remember that one week when you start feeling better.”

“I’ll see to it,” Ben promised.

The doctor gave Ben a bottle with seven tablets. “That’s for the pain,” he explained. “See that Stacy takes one pill about an hour before bed time. That should ease the pain enough to let her sleep.”

Ben nodded, and pocketed the bottle. “Thank you, Paul,” he said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “Do I need to bring Stacy in for further check ups?”

Paul shook his head. “Not unless problems develop, Ben,” he said. “Stacy’s a fine healthy girl, with the constitution of an ox. I don’t foresee any complications at all.”

“Thanks again, Paul.” Ben turned his attention to Jonathan. “Would you mind riding Blaze Face back?”

“Not at all,” Jonathan replied. “I’ll see to it he’s unsaddled and given a good rub down, too.”

“Stacy and I will go back in the buggy.” Ben paused long enough to direct a meaningful glare in his daughter’s general direction. “You and I have a long conversation ahead of us, Young Woman.”

 

The four o’clock stage passed the Cartwright buggy en route to the Virginia City depot. There was only one passenger. A young man with reddish blonde hair and hazel eyes, capable of taking on many colors. Today they shone deep green, the green of tree leaves at the height of summer, mirroring the tailor made green three piece suit he wore.  
The past year and a half had been very busy. He had graduated from Harvard, his father’s alma mater and grandfather’s before that, with a law degree. He managed to secure a position with a prestigious law firm in Boston a couple of months after graduation. Both partners in the firm were young themselves, aged in their mid-thirties, and eager to teach a green kid the tricks of the trade, as it were.

For the better part of the last year, the young man had scrimped and saved for a down payment on a house and money to purchase a round trip ticket to Virginia City for himself, and a one way ticket for the woman he loved. He had planned to stay two nights, maybe three at the outside. Just long enough for the love of his life to pack her things and make ready to go back with him to Boston. They would be married, of course. He would prefer that they do so in Boston. That would greatly lessen the chances of his father throwing a wrench into his plans. But, if SHE wished for the wedding to take place in Virginia City, he would accommodate her.

He climbed out of the stage coach and fetched his luggage, a single carpet bag, from the top. Though his father and younger brother lived in Virginia City, not far from the stage depot, he had no plans to visit them. A pang of conscience stabbed his heart at the thought of not taking time to visit his brother. “Maybe, after my wife and I get ourselves settled in Boston, we can send for him, invite him for a visit,” the young man tried to salve the sting of conscience. “Lord above knows, the kid could probably use time away from Father, too.” Unfortunately, he could not spare the time or run the risk of meeting their father. He had to find the woman he loved, and with her head out of town as quickly as possible. He turned, and with suitcase in hand, walked resolutely in the direction of the International Hotel.

 

“Pa, I’d, ummm . . . rather not repeat word for word what Abel said,” Stacy said.

“That bad?” Ben asked.

“Bad enough that Miss Tess made him wash his mouth out with soap,” Stacy replied. Picturing the occurrence made her want to laugh.

Ben smiled, in spite of everything. “Now I KNOW I’m going to like Miss Tess,” he said chuckling.

“Oh, Pa, please don’t!” Stacy begged. “It hurts when I laugh, and you’re going to have me laughing, if you keep that up.”

“Sorry,” Ben apologized, empathizing with her completely. He had been in her place many times in the past, most of those times when he was as young and as reckless as she could be now. He sobered. “Alright, you don’t have to quote Abel verbatim. Just give me the gist of what he said.”

Stacy swallowed, and winced as the buggy went over a slight rise in the road. Even a gist of what Abel had said could be just as bad. “Well . . . Abel kept referring to Miss O’Toole as a . . . a . . . as a woman who, uh . . . gives of herself freely,” she said. “Using the crude terms!”

Ben frowned. He had a very good idea as to what the verbatim content of Abel’s taunts might be.

“Then . . . then he accused you, Hoss, and Joe of . . . well, you know! I HOPE you know . . . . ”

“I have a very good idea,” Ben said through clenched teeth.

“He also made cracks about you and Miss Paris,” Stacy continued. “This morning, knowing that Miss O’Toole had died, I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I hit him. My mistake was turning my back on him and walking away. That’s when he tackled me.”

It took every ounce of will Ben possessed to continue on in the direction of home, rather than turn back to go in search of Abel Caine and thrash the boy within an inch of his life.  
“He got in one good punch . . . kick, actually,” Stacy continued. “He was getting ready to kick me again, but I saw that one coming. I was able to knock him down, and twist his arm, literally. I made him take back everything he said, Pa.”

“On the one hand, I’m glad that Miss O’Toole, may God rest her soul, Timmy, your brothers, and . . . and your mother and I . . . have a fighting Irish knight errant to come to our defense,” Ben said, not without a touch of pride. “But, Miss Tess was right. You should have told HER what Abel was saying, AND you should have told me.”

“I . . . know that now, Pa.”

 

Tess hired a buggy and horse from the Livery Stable in town and rode out to the Ponderosa to visit with Timmy and the Cartwrights, as she had promised Ben much earlier that day. It was Joe, his cheeks still red and eyes swollen, who answered the door.

“Good afternoon,” Tess said quietly. “I’m Miss Tess, the school teacher.”

Joe managed a small, sad smile, in spite of himself. “Come on in,” he invited. “My sister’s told us all a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Tess said as she entered the house.

“It’s all very good,” Joe hastened to assure her. “In fact, I don’t think I can recall a time

Stacy’s actually looked forward to doing her homework . . . before YOU came.”

“Thank you,” Tess graciously accepted the compliment. “How is Stacy doing?”

“She’s upstairs in her bedroom fast asleep,” Joe said. “Please, come on in the living room and sit down. I seem to be forgetting my manners.”

“Under the circumstances, it’s quite all right,” Tess said earnestly. She followed Joe into the living room, and sat down on the settee.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I came to see Timmy,” Tess said. “Your pa said he . . . Timmy, that is . . . would appreciate me doing that.”

“He’s up in Hoss’ room,” Joe said. “He and my big brother are bunking together. Timmy’s words. Pa brought home a few things that belonged to . . . to his ma. He’s upstairs lookin’ the stuff over. I can take you up, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Tess said rising.

Tess and Joe climbed the steps to the second floor, in silence. Joe led the way to the closed door to Hoss’ bedroom and knocked.

“Who is it?” a young voice half sobbed in response.

“It’s Joe, Timmy. You have a visitor.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. May we come in?”

“I . . . I s’pose . . . . ”

Joe looked over at Tess, and nodded. Tess opened the door and walked in. Joe stood out in the hall, watching. For a long time, Timmy stared up at his school teacher, gaping.

“Hello, Timmy,” Tess said quietly. “I’m really sorry to hear about your ma.”

“Th-thank you, Miss Tess,” the boy sniffled. “Mister Hoss told me that she’s in heaven.”

“Mister Hoss is right,” Tess said, seating herself on the edge of the bed.

“But . . . . ” he looked very troubled. “Abel Caine said Ma was going to go to hell, b-because . . . because she didn’t go to church.”

“I’m going to have a few stern words with Abel Caine tomorrow morning,” Tess said grimly. “Timmy, I want you to look at me and listen.”

Timmy nodded solemnly and looked up, meeting her eyes.

“Your ma did the very best she could with what life dealt her,” Tess explained. “She was a very kind, very generous, and very loving woman, who loved YOU very, very much. I know for a fact that the Father has a very special place not only in Heaven, Baby, but in His heart, too, for people like your ma.”

Timmy burst into tears and threw his arms around her neck. “Th-thank y-you, Miss Tess,” he sobbed.

“I want you to remember that, no matter what anyone else might say,” Tess said, as she slipped her arms around Timmy.

“I will, I promise,” Timmy said earnest. He sighed. “Sorry, I’m crying so much. I’ve heard people say you should be happy when someone goes to Heaven, but I can’t.”

“You can be happy your ma’s in Heaven, AND feel sad because she’s not here with you,” Tess said gently. “That’s perfectly alright, Timmy. It’s also ok to cry.”

“Will thinking of Ma always make me cry?” Timmy asked.

“No,” Joe said entering the room. “Timmy, my ma died when I was about your age. I cried a lot, too, at first. You can ask Pa, if you don’t believe me. It took me a long time, but I came to a place where I could think about her and talk about her without crying. Someday, you’ll be able to think of your ma, too, without crying. But, it takes time. You gotta give yourself that time.”

“Sounds like good words of wisdom to me, Timmy,” Tess said approvingly.

“Thank you, Miss Tess . . . and you, too, Mister Joe.”

Joe’s eyes fell on the small leather bound book. “That your ma’s diary?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Timmy replied. “It’s got writing in there, but I can’t make out any of the words.”

“May I see?” Joe asked.

“Sure,” Timmy picked up the book and handed it to Joe.

“Thanks, Timmy,” Joe said as he opened the book. His eyes shone with the gleam of fresh, unshed tears, yet he was also smiling. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. It’s written in Caltopian.”

Timmy looked up at Joe, his eyes round with astonishment. The look on his face definitely questioned Joe’s mental state. “What’s . . . Caltopian?” he asked.

“An imaginary language your ma and I made up when we were kids,” Joe replied. “It became our secret code. We used to send each other messages written in Caltopian all the time.”

“Mister, Joe, can you translate it?” Timmy asked. “I’d like more than anything to know what she’s written here.”

“I’ll try, Timmy,” Joe promised. “But, I have to warn you, my Caltopian is very, very, VERY rusty.”

“Miss Tess?”

“Yes, Timmy?”

“I’m not going to be coming back to school for awhile,” Timmy said in a small, quiet voice. “But, I’d like to keep up with my homework. Can you bring me my assignments?”

“I’d be more than happy, too, Timmy,” Tess replied. “Especially since I’ll be bringing Stacy’s assignments by, too, for a while.” She looked down at Timmy and smiled. “I wish more of my students were as diligent as you.”

“What does diligent mean, Miss Tess?”

“It means you work and study hard,” Tess replied, “and you keep at it.”

“Ma— ” he broke off, unable to speak.

Tess and Joe waited for the boy to continue.

“Ma always t-t-told me . . . m-my schooling’s . . . important,” Timmy said haltingly. “I know . . . she’d w-want me to . . . to keep up with m-my h-homework.”

“I’ll not only bring your assignments, but I’ll sit down with you and go over the lessons, too, if you’d like, AND if it’s alright with Mister Cartwright,” Tess said.

“I think I can safely say that Pa will approve,” Joe said. “If you both will excuse me, I’ll start to work on translating the Caltopian.”

“Thanks again, Mister Joe,” Timmy said.

 

Judge William Caine Senior occupied one of the tables at the back of the public room at the Silver Dollar Saloon. He sat, with his back to the wall, half hidden in shadows, his eyes riveted to the door, waiting. Mark Crawford, his right hand man, had told him a couple hours ago that he had spotted William Junior getting off the stage earlier that afternoon, and that he’d taken a room at the International Hotel. His oldest son’s homecoming couldn’t possibly have been more ill-timed. The disappearance and subsequent death of the jezebel his son had once been so enamored with, and the state governor’s scheduled visit within the next few days to talk over the possibility of a recommendation on the judge’s behalf to that federal position all happening so close together, were almost more than enough to handle.

The fact that Timmy, the jezebel’s little boy, was staying with the Cartwrights at the Ponderosa threatened to make an already horrendous situation even worse, given that Ben Cartwright and the governor were practically in each other’s pockets. Even so, he had been counting on Ben Cartwright’s good will and hopefully, his endorsement. Both would have almost certainly clinched his appointment to the federal bench.

Unfortunately, his younger son had seriously jeopardized Ben’s endorsement by initiating that idiotic school yard brawl with Stacy. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the foolish boy had to go and kick her while she was down, breaking a couple of ribs. “And that Cartwright girl STILL got the best of him!” the judge mused angrily.

He had of course, dealt with Abel quite severely regarding the matter. The boy would think very long and very hard before initiating another brawl with Stacy Cartwright, or anyone else for that matter. He was most confident on that score. Unfortunately, his disciplining Abel changed nothing. He could still kiss Ben Cartwright’s endorsement goodbye.

Now, just when the judge thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, he received word of his oldest boy’s arrival in Virginia City. Billy Junior had not informed him of his intended visit, leaving him to conclude only one thing. The stupid boy had come to fetch the jezebel. To do that, he would sooner or later, have to come to the Silver Dollar. When he did, he would find his father waiting.

 

At a quarter past the hour of seven, William Caine, Junior, the sole occupant of the stage coach earlier that afternoon walked into the Silver Dollar Saloon, and walked over to the bar. It was Friday night, and the saloon was doing its usual brisk business. Sam, the bartender, was busy serving customers at the other end of the bar, from where the younger William Caine had taken his place. The judge rose slowly, and walked over to his son with the feral grin on his face, looking very much like a cougar or a wolf about to close in on its unsuspecting prey.

“Good evening, Son. What a nice surprise,” the judge greeted his eldest, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

The younger William Caine started violently, and turned. His hazel eyes were as round as saucers, and his complexion several shades paler than normal.

The judge was immeasurably pleased by his son’s reaction. “You’ll do well to remember that nothing happens in this town, that I don’t know about,” he said in a deceptively calm tone. “Including you making a surprise visit. As for your little girl friend,” he spat the words girl friend, “well, you’re a day late and a dollar short, as the old saying goes.”

A growing sense of dread began to coalesce deep in the pit of his stomach, forming a hard, ice cold lump. “Father, I’ve come to take Lotus O’Toole back east with me,” William Junior quickly recovered his composure. “I’ve found a position in Boston that pays well, certainly well enough to support a wife and family. Neither Lotus nor I will in any way interfere with your plans. All I ask is that we be allowed to live our lives quietly.”

“Unfortunately, as I said, you’re a day late and a dollar short,” the judge said. “Lotus O’Toole died last night.”

“You’re lying!” the younger man spat furiously, glaring at his father with a scowl that could almost kill.

“Sam!” the judge called to the bar tender. “Over here!”

Sam bristled, but moved down toward Judge Caine and his son. “What can I getcha, Judge?” he asked in a cool, yet polite tone.

“It seems my son and I are having trouble communicating tonight,” the judge said in a bland tone. “Would you mind telling him about Miss O’Toole?”

“Were you a friend, Son?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” William Junior replied, taking great care to keep his voice bland. “She and I went to school together.”

Sam shook his head. “She died last night,” he said dolefully. “She was found . . . lying in that meadow out along the south road that takes you to the Ponderosa, beaten . . . left for dead. Ben and Joe Cartwright, and one of their hired men found her.”

“Dear God!” William Junior barely managed to stammer. The room suddenly began to swim sickeningly before his eyes.

“Don’t know what’s going to happen to her little boy,” Sam added.

William Junior looked up, his eyes round with shock and astonishment. “L-Lotus . . . M-Miss O’Toole . . . has a . . . a s-son?!”

“Yeah! Real cute little guy, and bright as a new penny,” Sam replied. “Just started first grade this year. He’s staying with the Cartwrights out at the Ponderosa, for now anyways.”

“Now you know the kind of woman she was, Son,” the judge said, taking his son by the forearm. “A little boy . . . obviously born out of wedlock, and no one knows who the sire was either.” This last he added with nasty relish. “Probably some drifter passing through, looking for a one night stand. Now, it seems her involvements with the men who frequent this establishment have resulted in her ignoble death.”

William Junior pulled his arm free of his father’s grasp with an angry wrench, the force of which shocked and stunned the judge. “I will NOT hear an ill word against Miss O’Toole, not from you or anyone else,” he spat. “Furthermore, I will not leave Virginia City until I see the man . . . or the men who killed her . . . caught and hanged.” With that, he turned heel and walked out of the Silver Dollar.

 

“Wow! Stacy, did you really beat up Abel Caine?” Timmy asked, awestruck.

“Well . . . yeah,” Stacy replied with a touch of reluctance. “Unfortunately, he got in a lucky punch that’s going to sort of keep me out of some things for awhile.”

“No sort of about it,” Ben said firmly. “Doctor Martin said one week.”

“I heard your teacher made Abel wash his mouth out with soap at the pump, after the fight,” Joe said with a smile.

“Did you really, Miss Tess?” the boy looked up at his teacher in wonder.

Miss Tess glared at the youngest Cartwright son, then turned her attention to Timmy. “Yes, I did, Timmy.”

“Wow! What did he say?” Timmy asked in a soft, reverential voice.

“If I told you what he said, I’d have to go wash my own mouth out with soap,” Tess answered primly, “and I, for one, happen to be of the opinion that soap tastes very, very nasty.” She made a face.

Timmy laughed out loud for the first time since the night his mother didn’t come home. The Cartwright men easily joined in the laughter. Stacy laughed, too, abandoning all attempts to refrain. Tonight, it seemed that trying not to laugh hurt far worse than giving in to the impulse. “I wish I could’ve seen Abel Caine washing his mouth out with soap,” he said, as his mirth faded. “What was it like, Stacy?”

“I didn’t see it either, Timmy,” Stacy replied, grimacing every third word. “I was in the middle of a heart to heart talk with Miss Tess at the time.”

“Which reminds me, Stacy, did you complete your homework assignment?” Tess asked.

“Yes, Ma’am, I did,” Stacy replied, with a meaningful glance at her father.

“I can certainly vouch for that,” Ben said quietly.

Conversation at the supper table was lighter and livelier, in stark contrast to the night before, with Timmy O’Toole dominating. He was so full of questions. He wanted to know about all the horses he had met in the corral over the past couple of days. He also asked about the school lessons he had missed, and about things going on at school, prompting the discussion of the fight between Stacy and Abel.

Hoss was particularly heartened and gratified to hear the boy laughing. “Miss Tess, you’re going to have to join us every night for supper,” he said, as the meal concluded. He gallantly held Tess’ chair as she rose from the table. “Looks like your visit’s done Timmy a world of good.”

“Thank you, Hoss,” Tess said quietly, as they and the others made their way into the living room. “That reminds me . . . . ” She turned her attention to Ben as she seated herself on the sofa. “Ben, while Timmy and I were visiting earlier, he asked if I might stop by with his homework assignments. I can do that, and bring Stacy’s as well, of course . . . . ”

“Too bad, Little Sister,” Joe teased with a smile. “No matter how banged up you get, you still have to do your school work.”

“So help me, Grandpa, if you make me laugh again . . . . ”

“Miss Tess, please continue,” Ben said pointedly, though in all honesty he felt a measure of relief in hearing his two younger children bantering back and forth once again.

“Timmy asked if we might also go over his lessons,” Tess continued. “I’m certainly willing, if it’s alright with you.”

Ben smiled. “It’s perfectly alright with me, Miss Tess,” he said. “Please feel free to come whenever and as often as you like. There’s always room for you at our table as well.”  
Tess smiled. “Thank you very much, Ben,” she said gratefully.

“Mister Joe, were you able to translate any of the Caltopian?” Timmy asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Joe replied. “It was hard, at first, then suddenly, the words started coming. It was kind of a strange experience.”

“Caltopian?” Ben inquired, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“A secret language Timmy’s ma and I made up when we were kids,” Joe explained.

“Lotus’ diary was among the things Roy Coffee gave you this afternoon, Pa. It’s written in Caltopian. Timmy asked me to translate.”

“What did you translate, Mister Joe?” Timmy asked eagerly.

“An entry dated September 4, this year,” Joe replied. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out three pages of paper, all folded together. “ ‘Today was Timmy’s first day at school. He was a little afraid at first, until he met his teacher, Miss Tess. Such a warm, kind woman, she won Timmy over immediately. When he came home this afternoon, with Stacy Cartwright and Molly O’Hanlan, he was so excited . . . his face all aglow, like it was Christmas. He told me about learning his letters, what they look like, how they sound, how they go together to form words, and learning to count from one to ten.

‘After supper, while I got ready to go to work, he insisted that I teach him to count to twenty. We worked and worked. By the time I left for the Silver Dollar, he was able to count to twenty flawlessly, without the least bit of hesitation. It pleases me that Timmy likes school, and enjoys learning. It also pleases me that he has a teacher like Miss Tess, a venerable woman who reminds me much of my grandmother.’ ”

Timmy silently reflected on his mother’s words, so recently written. His eyes shone with unshed tears, and his lower lip quivered. “Thank you, M-Mister Joe,” he said quietly, at length. “May I have those papers?”

“Sure,” Joe placed the folded pages into Timmy’s eager, outstretched hands.

“Timmy, it’s time we got you into bed,” Hoss said gently.

“Can’t I stay up a little while longer, Mister Hoss?” Timmy begged. “Please?”

“It’s past your bedtime now,” Hoss said.

Timmy sighed, and reluctantly surrendered to the inevitable. “OK . . . . ”

“Good night, Timmy,” Tess said with a smile. “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

On impulse, the boy ran over and threw his arms around Tess. “See you tomorrow, Miss Tess,” he said, giving her a big, enthusiastic squeeze. “Good night.”

Timmy enthusiastically ran from one to the other, hugging everyone good night. When he came to Stacy, he hugged her gently, remembering her injuries. Hoss took the boy by the hand and led him upstairs.

“I think I’d better say good night, too,” Tess said, rising. “I have a few more essays to grade before class tomorrow. Ben, please give my compliments to Hop Sing. It’s been a long time since I ate so fine a meal.”

“I’ll do that, Miss Tess,” Ben said, as they walked toward the front door. “Would you like someone to ride back with you? I know I’D feel better.”

“Alright, as long as it’s not putting anyone out unduly,” Tess agreed.

“I’ll ask Jonathan . . . . ”

 

“Anything to report, Angel Boy?” Tess asked, as she and Jonathan rode toward Virginia City.

“The Boss hasn’t said much, but that’s nothing new,” he sighed. “However, when Mister Cartwright and I went to fetch Stacy? I looked out the window and watched Abel Caine washing his mouth out with soap. I got this feeling that the Caines play a part in things somehow. I still have the feeling.”

“But no idea WHAT part they’re going to play, or HOW BIG a part they’re going to play?” Tess asked.

Jonathan shook his head. “As I said, The Boss hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”

“I’ve got the same gut feelings myself, Angel Boy,” Tess said.

“I also can’t shake the feeling Timmy O’Toole’s pa’s going to play a part in things as well,” Jonathan added. “I have no idea in the world where he is, or even WHO he is for that matter. All the Boss says about that is I’ll know the guy if and when I see him.”

“There was a diary that belonged to Lotus O’Toole in with some things the sheriff asked Ben Cartwright to give Timmy,” Tess said thoughtfully. “She recorded everything in Caltopian, a language she and Joe Cartwright made up as children. Timmy asked Joe to translate it.”

“Can he?” Jonathan asked.

“I think Joe surprised himself,” Tess replied. “Tonight, he read the entry Miss O’Toole made on Timmy’s first day of school.” She blushed, unable to help it.

“You know, if Lotus O’Toole went to all the trouble of writing in a secret language only one other person in the world knew, besides herself, there may be a lot of personal information that just may shed some light regarding this assignment,” Jonathan said.

“Like the identity of Timmy’s father,” Tess said. “Word has it she’s never told anyone.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed, “and, assuming she wrote in that diary up until the last, she may have written down clues that point to the identity of her murderer.”

“She may have even named her murderer outright,” Tess said soberly.

 

The following morning dawned clear and cold. Ben Cartwright shivered under the blankets before reluctantly turning them aside. He slowly eased himself to a sitting position, and reached for his robe, hanging in its usual place over the bed post on his head board, at his right. He dreaded the heartbreaking duty that lay ahead of him today. After breakfast, first thing, he would ride in to Virginia City and make the funeral arrangements for Lotus O’Toole.

As he washed his face and dressed, Ben considered inviting Joe to accompany him. It only seemed right in the face of a friendship that had endured since the first day both of them started first grade nearly twenty years ago. He stepped out into the hall and walked the short distance to the still closed door to Joe’s bedroom. Ben knocked.

No answer.

Ben knocked again. “Joe? You awake?”

Still no answer.

Frowning, Ben cracked the door open and peered inside. Joe’s bed was made, and there was no sign of the clothing he had worn the day before. Ben closed the door, then went downstairs in search of his youngest son. He found Joe seated behind the desk, his head cradled in the circle of his arms, sound asleep. Lotus O’Toole’s diary lay open on top of the desk. Both it and Joe were surrounded by numerous papers, with notes scribbled on them. Ben sighed softly, then walked over and gently shook his son awake.

Joe started violently, his sudden, abrupt movements sending the papers nearest the edge of the table flying onto the floor.

“Sorry, Son,” Ben apologized.

“ ‘S OK, Pa,” Joe rose stiffly to his feet and stretched. “I’m coming upstairs now.”

“It’s morning, Joe,” Ben said quietly.

Joe stared at his father with a look of stupefied incredulity for a moment. “Y-you mean . . . I’ve been here all night?” he queried, as he reached up to massage the back of his neck.

Ben nodded.

“Guess I dozed off,” he said, before yawning again. “After you went up to bed, it suddenly occurred to me that Lotus many have named her killer, or at the very least, left clues in her diary pointing in his direction.”

“Did you find anything?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Pa, I just don’t know.”

“I’m not sure I quite understand,” Ben said, a bewildered frown creasing his brow.

Joe picked up a handful of notes and shuffled through them. “Take this entry, for instance,” he said. He looked down at the page on top of the stack in his hand and began to read. “It’s dated October 9 . . . a week before she . . . before she left for work and never r-returned home again.” He fell silent, working to regain a measure of composure.

Ben seated himself on the edge of the desk and waited for Joe to continue.

“ ‘I’m frightened, for me and for Timmy. Today, when I came home from work I found a dead puppy next to the door stoop, wrapped in a blue blanket, it’s head cruelly bashed. There was an envelope addressed to me, with a note telling me not to make trouble, or else.

‘Why? After all this time, why? I want nothing from him . . . never asked him for anything . . . never done or said anything to make or cause trouble. All I want is to live my life, and to raise my boy, I hope, to something better.

‘He knows. He must know. I don’t know how he knows, or how he could have possibly found out. I’ve never told a soul, not even Sally at the Silver Dollar, or Joe, my dearest and most trusted of friends. But he knows. I can feel it. HE . . . . KNOWS.’ ”

Ben silently mulled over Joe’s translation of Lotus O’Toole’s written words, deeply disturbed and disheartened by their meaning and the images they conjured. “She never identifies the person making the threats?” he asked.

“No,” Joe dolefully shook his head. “Pa, I can’t understand it. How can Lotus refer to Sally Tyler and me as her most trusted friends, and not tell us what was happening to her?”

“She WAS frightened,” Ben said, “and with good reason.” He shuddered at the thought of the puppy, bludgeoned to death lying wrapped in a baby blanket. “She may have been afraid that the person threatening her might harm you and Sally if she did tell you.”

“After what happened to Lotus, I-I guess I can see why . . . she might have been afraid of Sally being hurt,” Joe said, his voice breaking. He glanced up looking over across the desk at his father, his hazel eyes meeting Ben’s dark brown ones. “But, she could have told ME.” He broke eye contact and sank back down in the chair. “Dear God, Pa, if only she HAD told me . . . if she had trusted me to protect her, Lotus’d still be alive today.”

Ben heard the anguish in Joe’s heart and voice loud and clear. “Joe, you don’t know that,” he said, “you CAN’T know that.”

“Can’t I, Pa?”

Ben immediately walked around to the other side of the desk, where he seated himself on the edge near where his youngest son sat. “Son, look at me,” he said in a gentle, yet very firm tone.

Joe turned and glanced up.

“You can’t wallow in all this . . . this useless speculation,” Ben said. There was a pleading edge to his tone.

“Pa, you don’t understand,” Joe sobbed. “In spite of what she said in her diary, she didn’t trust me enough to come to me. I feel like . . . like I’M the one who killed her, because she didn’t trust me.”

“Joseph, listen to me!” Ben said sternly. “You did NOT kill Lotus O’Toole! The man who . . . who used her . . . beat her, then left her in that meadow for dead . . . HE’S the one who killed her.”

“Pa, you just don’t understand,” Joe sobbed.

“I understand, Son, all too well,” Ben said quietly. “When I found out Stacy was my daughter . . . by blood, I blamed myself for all the terrible things that happened to her before she came to live with us, because her mother, Paris, left here so abruptly without telling me she was pregnant. The guilt I felt, because I obviously hadn’t earned Paris’ trust, almost destroyed my relationship not only with Stacy, but with you boys as well.”

“I remember, Pa,” Joe said contritely. He had never imagined the existence a common thread between Lotus O’Toole and Paris McKenna. “I’m sorry.”

“Joseph, promise me you’ll remember this: we WERE there for both of them,” Ben’s tone was much gentler, “you for Lotus O’Toole, and me for Paris McKenna. Lotus said so in her diary, and Stacy, very bluntly I must say, reminded me that I WAS there for her mother, and would have been there for her, too, had I known.”

“Why couldn’t they bring themselves to come to us, when they so desperately needed us?” Joe wondered aloud.

“I’m not going to pretend I know what their reasons were,” Ben said. “I can only say with any kind of reasonable certainty that, to them, their reasons were valid. We have to accept that, without beating ourselves up over things that can’t be changed.”

Joe nodded.

“Joe, I’m going into town this morning to make the funeral arrangements,” Ben said quietly. “Would you like to go with me? It would certainly be appropriate, given how many years you’ve been friends.”

Joe wavered. The mere thought of arranging the funeral for an old and very dear friend, murdered so cruelly, so soon, leaving behind a young boy orphaned with no family, tore his anguished heart to shreds. At the same time, a very small, very quiet inner voice insisted that arranging her funeral could also be a gift of love and respect for an old, and dear friend. It would be his last gift to Lotus O’Toole in this life time. He looked up at Ben, and nodded.

 

 

End of Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

Hop Sing served up a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, steak, fried potatoes, and fluffy biscuits, within less than half an hour later. Timmy came to the table leading Hoss by the hand, his eyes shining with excitement. He and Hoss were going to spend the morning at the corral feeding and exercising the horses. They would return to the house for dinner, and afterward, go for a ride together to the shores of the lake.

“You just make sure you’re back when Miss Tess comes this afternoon,” Ben said as a reminder.

“Oh! I forgot about Miss Tess coming,” Timmy gasped. “I guess we’d better not go to the lake today, Mister Hoss.”

“It’s important for ya to keep up with your school work, that’s f’r sure, Timmy,” Hoss agreed. “We’ll go to the lake another time.”

Stacy appeared at the table a few minutes after everyone had taken their places, grimacing every time she inhaled. “Sorry, I’m late, Pa,” she said slowly. “I can’t believe this! I actually hurt worse this morning than I did last night.”

“That, I’m afraid, is the usual way of things, Stacy,” Ben said, wincing along with her as she slowly, painfully seated herself at the table. “You always feel worse before you start feeling better.” Even though Ben could well emphasize with his injured daughter, he felt a guilty sense of relief as well. For today, at least, he could rest assured that Stacy would spend the day resting.

“Just made special tea for Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing said sympathetically. “Hop Sing go get.” He returned a few moments later and placed an enormous mug of steaming hot tea, brewed from a mysterious mixture of herbs and powders. “You drink up, Miss Stacy,” he said. “Tea help you not hurt so much.”

“Dadburn it, Hop Sing,” Hoss grimaced and wrinkled his nose with blatantly obvious distaste, “what’d you put in that brew anyway? Smells like a polecat that’s just let loose.”

“If it can give me some relief,” Stacy said, holding her nose, “I don’t care if it smells like TEN polecats . . . that’ve let loose.”

“You ain’t really gonna drink it . . . are ya?” Hoss looked over at Stacy as if she had just taken complete leave of her senses, if not her very sanity itself.

Stacy, still holding her nose, raised the mug to her lips and forced down the noxious contents in a single gulp. She slowly set the mug down on the table, unsure for a brief, almost terrifying moment, whether she was going to faint or throw up. The feeling passed almost immediately. “Th-thank you, Hop Sing,” she murmured, “I . . . I think I’m actually feeling a little better already.”

“Miss Stacy know what good for her,” Hop Sing declared, directing a withering glare in Hoss’ general direction. He turned his attention back to Stacy, smiling this time, and took back the mug. “Now Miss Stacy eat,” he said. “Miss Stacy need to build up strength to heal.”

“Hop Sing’s right about that,” Ben said in complete agreement. He picked up the bowl of scrambled eggs and placed it in front of Stacy. “Dig in!”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy took the spoon and helped herself. “Hey, Big Brother, would you please pass the steak and fried potatoes?”

“Mister Joe, did you translate any more of the Caltopian?” Timmy asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I did,” Joe replied with a smile. “The date on this entry’s a very special day. June 10, five going on six years ago.”

“June tenth . . . THAT’S my birthday!” Timmy declared grinning from ear-to-ear.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “This June 10 was a real special birthday.”

“It was?” Timmy queried.

“Yep,” Joe replied, nodding his head.

“Why?”

“Because THIS was your very FIRST birthday.” Joe picked up the folded papers next to his plate and began to read. “ ‘My little boy turns a whole year old today. Where has the time gone? Seems like only yesterday, he was born, a tiny helpless baby nestled quietly in my arms, suckling at my breast. Now he’s a big, strapping boy, who can walk and run, and chatter a mile a minute. No words yet, but soon. I love this little boy, this angel, this ray of sunshine and thunder storm, more than I could possibly ever say, not if I lived to the ancient age of my venerable grandmother.

‘Tonight, Sam, Sally, and the other girls put together a big party for my little Timmy. Such a wonderful surprise, for him, but especially for me. Sam also invited Doc and Lilly Martin, Joe, Ben, and Stacy Cartwright. Hoss was invited too, but couldn’t come. Seems he’s laid up at home with a sprained ankle. I did send a slice of cake. A big slice of cake with a big, blue icing rose.

‘Timmy was so delightful, laughing, chattering like a magpie, full of hugs and blue icing faced kisses. I tried to clean him up first, but he runs so fast now, I couldn’t catch him. And nobody minded the cake on their clothes, the blue icing in their hair and on their faces. Even Jenna Wilkes, always so fussy about her appearance, wouldn’t hear of me stopping Timmy, his face and hands covered with cake and chocolate, from giving her a big hug and kiss.

‘They all love him so. Stacy blowing bubbles to make him laugh, and playing peek-a-boo. She’s not much more than a child herself. Neither is Joe when he gives my Timmy horsie rides, running around with him on his shoulders, laughing that laugh of his. The biggest surprise of all is that Jenna Wilkes, the hardest hearted woman west of the Mississippi, I swear she is. But, I see her all the time chattering back to Timmy in that baby talk language of his, making funny faces to make him laugh, and holding him when he cries. I think her hard heart’s all an act that Timmy sees right through. Such is the magic of little children.

‘Timmy and I had such a marvelous, wonderful time. I almost wish this party might go on and on, and never end.’ ”

Joe folded the papers and passed them across the table to Timmy. “You can put these with the others,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, Mister Joe. It almost feels like Ma’s back with us again.”

“Yes, it does,” Joe agreed with a wistful smile.

“Timmy, you ‘n me need t’ git goin’ if ‘n we’re gonna take care o’ them horses,” Hoss said. “We won’t have Stacy t’ help us out today.”

“I’m ready, Mister Hoss!” the boy responded, his face glowing with excitement and anticipation. He quickly shoveled the last bites of food on his plate into his mouth, and rose. “Can I ride one of the horses today, Mister Hoss? Please, may I?”

“I can let you ride Chubb, but the ones at the corral . . . they ain’t ready for ridin’ yet,” Hoss replied, and they left the table together and headed toward the front door.

“Joe, you and I need to get a move on, too,” Ben said, rising.

Joe drank the last of his coffee. “I’m ready, Pa,” he said somberly.

“Mister Cartwright not need to worry about Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing said. “Hop Sing make sure Miss Stacy rest, eat, and take medicine.”

“Stacy, you do as Hop Sing says, no arguments,” Ben said.

“Pa, really!” Stacy said, looking highly offended. “Do I look stupid enough to argue with the man who has every knife and meat cleaver in this house out in his kitchen?”

“Miss Stacy very smart young woman,” Hop Sing said with an approving smile.

 

“Ben . . . Joe, a word with you, if I may?”

Ben and Joe, both standing at the front door of the undertaker’s place of business, paused and glanced up. It was Paul Martin.

“I was hoping I’d catch you . . . . ”

“What can we do for you, Paul?” Ben asked.

“I figured you’d be making the final arrangements for Miss O’Toole this morning,” the doctor came right to the point. “You know Lily and I’ve always been very fond of her and the boy, and . . . well, we talked it over last night, and we’re more than willing to have the funeral observances in our home, if it’s alright with you?”

“I . . . I think that would be wonderful, Pa,” Joe said, pleasantly surprised. Lotus’ mention of the Martins in her account of Timmy’s first birthday party rose to the fore front of his mind.

“You sure, Paul?” Ben asked.

“Absolutely,” Paul said. “You just let me know the date.”

“Joe and I will be around to see you later,” Ben promised. “Thank Lily for us, too, would you?”

“I sure will, Ben.”

“Ben . . . ‘morning, Joe.” It was Sam, the bartender, owner and operator of the Silver Dollar. “I was hopin’ to catch you.”

“What can we do for you, Sam?” Ben asked.

“If you don’t have any place lined up to feed folks after the grave site service, you can have ‘em come to the Silver Dollar,” Sam said. “I’ll even put together a decent spread for ya.”

“That’s very generous, Sam,” Ben said, awestruck.

“She worked for me, Ben,” Sam said quietly, his eyes unusually bright. “She worked hard, and kept to her high ideals, ‘specially after Timmy was born. Life dealt that gal a real hard hand, but she did the best she could with what she had.”

“Yes, she did,” Joe said, his voice breaking.

“If you need a place for folks to come an’ pay her their last respects . . . . ”

“Paul and Lily Martin beat you to the punch, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “They offered the use of their front parlor not five minutes before we ran into you.”

“Sam, any idea what Lotus’ religious beliefs were?” Joe asked. “We talked about God a lot when we were kids, but never anything more specific than that.”

Sam quietly searched his mind for an answer. “I know she had Timmy christened at the church,” he said slowly. “She tried goin’ there for a li’l while, so Timmy might get a bit o’ religious training, but stopped.” He frowned. “Seems the ladies of the church went out of their way to make Lotus feel unwelcome.”

“Did she follow her ma’s religious beliefs?” Joe asked.

Sam dolefully shook his head. “I wish I could tell ya, Joe,” he said. “But, I just don’t know. If you’d like, I’ll ask Sally when she comes in to work tonight. Could be Lotus talked some with her.”

“Thanks, Sam, I’d appreciate that,” Joe said with heartfelt sincerity.

“I’ll letcha know,” Sam promised in parting.

“All that remains now is a visit with Reverend Hildebrandt,” Ben said.

“No, Pa,” Joe said, placing a restraining hand on Ben’s forearm.

Ben turned and looked at Joe askance.

“First of all, I’d like to see if maybe Lotus told Sally about her religious beliefs,” Joe said, “assuming she had any at all. If it turns out she didn’t, I’d rather we had a gathering of those of us she knew as her friends . . . kind of like we did for Miss Paris.”

“Joe, Miss Paris was a whole different situation entirely,” Ben said.

“How so?” Joe asked.

“At the time of HER death, we were reasonably certain that Paris had no religious affiliation,” Ben explained. “Though she was raised in the Roman Catholic Church, she left it years ago. We . . . also had to take Stacy’s wishes into account, and . . . well, to say she was dead set against having a church funeral for her mother would be the understatement of the year.” A note of sadness crept into Ben’s voice as he spoke this last.

“Understatement of the century would be closer to the mark, Pa,” Joe remembered.

“I can’t blame Stacy for feeling the way she did, not after all the grief that . . . that crazy uncle of hers put her through . . . . ” Ben was surprised at the intensity of feeling that still rose within as he looked back on that night.

“I remember The Kid saying that Reverend Hildebrandt is just as much a religious fanatic in his own way as her uncle was,” Joe said. “Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“I feel the same about Lotus, as Stacy did about her ma, Miss Paris,” Joe said quietly and very firmly. “You heard Sam just now, talking about how she had gone to the church for a little while after she had Timmy christened, but stopped because the ‘good Christian’ ladies at the church went out of their way to make her feel UNwelcome.”

Ben nodded.

“I remember her telling me about that,” Joe said, his mouth hardening into a thin angry line. “She went back to that church three times, Pa . . . THREE TIMES! No one would even look at her, let alone actually speak to her. If she sat down on a pew that was occupied? Everyone would get up and move. One Sunday, they were begging for volunteers to do something, I can’t remember what it was now. Lotus offered to help, and was turned away. The next Sunday, the minister himself repeated the same announcement.”

Ben shook his head. “What is the church coming to these days?” he wondered aloud, his outrage on hearing of Lotus O’Toole’s treatment at the hands of the parishioners coming through loud and clear. But, there was a deep, profound sadness as well. He remembered the church his own family had attended, the one in which he and his brothers and sisters had grown from infancy to adulthood, as being a loving, gracious, and tolerant community. There, Lotus O’Toole and her son, Timmy would not only have been accepted, but actually welcomed with open arms.

The church community of Ben Cartwright’s childhood made it their practice to welcome the sick of body and spirit, the poor, the drunk and often disorderly who frequented the numerous bars and taverns lining Boston’s many wharfs, ex-convicts, foul mouthed sailors, and even the so-called righteous. It was there Ben began to learn many of the lessons he carried with him throughout his life, about the meaning of community, tolerance, acceptance, forgiveness, charity, and above all love.

Ben suddenly realized, for the first time, that the so called righteous formed the vast majority of attendees at any given service here at the church over which Reverend Hildebrandt presided. When he and his family attended services last Christmas, there was no sign whatsoever of the poor and disenfranchised. Worse, as he overheard people talking, it became clear that the righteous folk of Virginia City looked down on, even actively hated those in some way less fortunate than they.

“What in the world has the church come to?” Ben quietly repeated the question, as his thoughts returned to Lotus O’Toole and her outright rejection by the members of the church in Virginia City.

“Pa?”

Ben glanced up and saw his youngest son looking over at him askance. He managed a wistful half smile. “Sorry, Son,” he said quietly. “You telling me about Lotus trying to be part of the church community here just set me off on a long train of thought.”

“I was thinking . . . even if it turns out that Lotus had no religious beliefs, I’d like YOU could read the psalm about God being our shepherd,” Joe said. “I like that one, especially when I hear you reading it.”

“I’d be more than happy to, Son,” Ben agreed.

“I’d like you to read that passage about love that you read at Miss Paris’ funeral, too, Pa,” Joe continued, “because, for me, a lot of Lotus was all about was love.”

Ben nodded, pleased to see his son suddenly making the decisions about Lotus O’Toole’s funeral arrangements.

“I can do something along the lines of a eulogy,” Joe said, “and I’d like to ask Sally Tyler. Sally took Lotus under her wing when she started work there, and they’ve been close ever since. We can let other people share their memories of Lotus, too.”

“What about the assurances of the afterlife . . . of Heaven?” Ben asked. “Stacy had her own beliefs to comfort and sustain her when her mother died. But what about Timmy?”

Joe smiled. “I know just the right person for that, Pa,” he said. “Miss Tess.”

“Stacy’s and Timmy’s school teacher?”

Joe nodded. “When she stopped by to visit yesterday, Timmy had questions about Heaven, and would his ma go there,” he explained. “You should have heard her. Poor Timmy was upset over some things Abel Caine told him, but Miss Tess assured him that his ma was with God and was in Heaven.” He lapsed into a moment of thoughtful silence. “When Miss Tess told Timmy about God and Heaven . . . Pa, this may sound crazy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she’s been there and knows God personally.”

“Miss Tess IS someone very special,” Ben agreed. “I felt that within the first few moments of meeting her myself.”

“I think when it comes to offering any kind of assurances about life after death, that Miss Tess has it over a million men like Reverend Hildebrandt,” Joe said sincerely.

“She’ll be stopping by to give Stacy and Timmy their lessons and homework this afternoon,” Ben said. “We can ask her then.”

“Alright,” Joe agreed. “In the meantime, I’d like to stop by the Silver Dollar, and see if I can find Sally.”

 

While Ben and Joe Cartwright finished making the arrangements for Lotus O’Toole’s funeral observances, Hoss Cartwright and Timmy O’Toole had just returned to the house for dinner. Hoss dismounted first, then reached up to help Timmy down.

“I’m hungry, Mister Hoss,” Timmy declared, “hungrier than a grouchy old grizzly that just woke up after a long winter’s night.”

“Dinner’ll be ready in a little bit, Timmy,” Hoss said with a smile. “But we gotta see to Chubb first, then wash up.”

Timmy, caught in the delicious throes of exuberant childish high spirits ran to the barn door, laughing with pure delight, and opened it for Hoss and Chubb. He also ran around the barn obediently fetching brush, feed, and blanket as Hoss requested. They stopped out front to wash their hands together at the pump before entering the house.

“Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?” Hoss responded as he double checked Timmy’s hands and nails, then set about drying them.

“Where will I go?” Timmy asked, an anxious frown knotting his brow.

“What do you mean where will you go?” Hoss asked.

“Where will I go now that Ma’s gone to Heaven?” Timmy asked, as they started walking toward the house.

“We’ll have to do some checkin’ around to see if there’s any relatives of yours somewhere,” Hoss replied.

“Ma told me all o’ hers died in a fire a long time ago,” Timmy said, slipping his small hand into Hoss’ massive one.

“That’s right . . . least wise the folks on her ma’s side o’ the family,” Hoss said. “Her pa . . . your grandpa . . . on t’ other hand may have relatives somewhere . . . still livin’ . . . . ”

“What about MY pa?” Timmy asked.

“Your pa?”

“I have a pa, don’t I?”

“Sure, Timmy, everybody’s got a pa,” Hoss replied.

“What about MY pa?” Timmy asked. “Will I go live with him?”

“Timmy, did your ma ever say anything to you about your pa?” Hoss ventured the question almost hesitantly.

“She told me just before she . . . before she . . . . ” He fell silent for a moment, trying to compose himself. “Ma told me that my pa was a good man, and she loved him very much.”

“Did she say whether he was livin’ or not?” Hoss asked.

“I asked why Pa wasn’t with us, Mister Hoss,” the boy said quietly. “Ma didn’t say he was dead, exactly. She just said he couldn’t be with us.”

“Timmy, if we do happen to find your pa, an’ he turns out to be a good man like your ma said . . . . ” Hoss privately had his doubts, “would you want to go live with him?”  
He opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, then snapped it shut again upon realizing that if he did go to live with this mysterious pa of his, he might never see Mister Hoss again. “I don’t know,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?”

“What if we don’t find any relatives, not even my pa?”

Hoss grinned. “Then I guess you’ll have to stay with us here at the Ponderosa,” he said, as an idea began to take shape in his mind. “Would you like that, Timmy?”

“Can I see the horses everyday?”

“After you finish your schoolwork,” Hoss said.

“Can we go fishing and riding?”

“Yep.”

“Can Stacy teach me to ride?”

“Sure, if she’s of a mind.”

“Can we still bunk together every night?”

“If you’d like.”

The boy’s warm, radiant smile lit up his whole face. “Yeah, I want to stay here with you, Mister Hoss,” Timmy declared, wrapping his small arms around Hoss’ waist and giving him as big a bear hug as he could manage.

Hoss knelt down and took Timmy in his arms.

“Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?”

“I love you,” the boy declared throwing his arms exuberantly around Hoss’ neck.

“I love you, too, Timmy,” Hoss said, hugging him once again, in return.

The front door opened. Both looked up to see Stacy looking down at both of them with a bemused smile on her face. “You guys better get in here and get to the table,” she said quietly. “Hop Sing’s having a fit!”

“Can’t have that,” Hoss rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Come on, Timmy.”

The boy eagerly took Hoss’ proffered hand, and together they entered the house leaving Stacy staring after them.

At the table, Timmy’s voracious appetite immediately placed him squarely back in Hop Sing’s good graces. Hoss ate with his usual relish, and even Stacy’s appetite ran above its usual norm.

“Thank you for dinner, Mister Hop Sing,” Timmy paid his compliments to the chef in flawless Chinese.

Hop Sing beamed with pure pleasure and delight. “You’re most welcome,” he responded back in his native tongue. “Now time for Miss Stacy to take medicine,” he announced, switching back to English. “Hop Sing go get.” He returned to the dining room with a large mug of the same tea he had served up after breakfast.

“Whew! That stuff smells worse ‘n it did this mornin’,” Hoss declared, grimacing.

“Like a pole cat that’s just let loose?” Timmy queried, laughing and looking up at Hoss with a mixture of adoration and pride.

“Hey, it works!” Stacy said, accepting the mug. “And after I get past feeling like I’m gonna throw up, it’s not really that bad. Cheers!” She raised the mug in salute, then, firmly holding her nose, swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

“Stacy . . . . ?” Hoss looked over at her anxiously, as the color drained from her face.

“I’ll be alright, Big Brother, honest,” she said.

A loud, firm knock at the front door drew Hoss’ attention from his sister’s immediate physical distress. “Dadburn it, who could that be?” Hoss wondered aloud, rising. “That couldn’t be Miss Tess, could it?”

“Not likely, Big Brother,” Stacy replied. “She wouldn’t be coming to see Timmy and me until AFTER school.”

Hoss left the dining room area and went to the door. Outside, he saw a tall man, standing almost as tall as himself, clad in a black suit, black shirt, wearing a clerical collar. Aged around the same as that of Joe Cartwright, he had broad, well muscled shoulders, that tapered to a narrow trim waist. His dark brown hair, neatly trimmed, framed the strikingly handsome face of an Adonis with it’s olive complexion, broad jaw line, cleft chin, and dark brown piercing eyes. He had a Bible tucked under one arm. He smiled, showing a line of shining white teeth, and offered his free hand. “Good afternoon, I’m Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt,” he greeted Hoss politely.

“Hoss Cartwright,” he said, shaking the reverend’s hand. “What can I do for ya?”

“I’m here to pay a condolence call,” the clergyman replied.

“Is that a fact?”

Hoss turned and found his sister standing a few feet behind him, arms folded defiantly across her chest, leveling the good reverend a look meant to kill. “Stacy, manners,” he hissed sotto voce.

“I CAN come back another time, if . . . . ”

“No, please, come on in, Reverend,” Hoss stood aside and invited Stacy to do likewise with a ferocious glare of his own. Much to his relief, she acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. Hoss led the way into the living room area, near the fireplace, with Timmy and Stacy following. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be wonderful, thank you.”

Hoss invited the minister to sit down with a gesture. “Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Hoss?”

“Would you please bring a cup o’ coffee for Reverend Hildebrandt here?”

Hop Sing nodded and moved off.

“You ASK your servants, instead of ORDER?!” Daniel Hildebrandt looked over at Hoss in open bewilderment and skepticism.

“Hop Sing is a member of this family, Reverend Hildebrandt,” Stacy immediately rushed to his defense. “I think I can safely say that Pa taught all of us that family members say please and thank you to each other.”

Hoss rolled his eyes, wondering what perverse bedevilment had suddenly gotten into his sister. He had never known her to be so openly hostile, unless provoked.

“As I said, I’ve come to pay a condolence call,” Daniel said complacently, “ . . . AND to offer my services.”

“Your services?!” Hoss queried with a puzzled frown.

“Officiating at her funeral service,” Daniel explained. “Miss O’Toole was a member of MY congregation, after all . . . . ”

“Pa and our brother, Joe, are in town makin’ arrangements now,” Hoss said.

“Really.” Daniel frowned. He had been at home in the parsonage all morning, yet had not seen anything of either Ben or Joe Cartwright. Even though their attendance, once regular, had waned since the retirement of his predecessor, they would almost certainly seek him out regarding weddings or funerals.

Hop Sing stepped into the living room area with a tray, bearing a coffee pot, three mugs, a glass of milk for Timmy, sugar, and cream. He placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Hoss, then quietly withdrew.

“Sorry, I’m fergettin’ my manners,” Hoss said. He poured a mug of coffee for the minister and passed it over to him. “Reverend Hildebrandt, this is my sister, Stacy . . . . ”

“How do you do, Stacy?” the minister smiled and extended his hand.

“Reverend Hildebrandt,” Stacy coolly acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod and reluctant hand shake.

“ . . . an’ this here’s Miss O’Toole’s little boy, Timmy,” Hoss said, drawing the boy front and center. All of the exuberance, so openly manifest a short while ago at the dinner table, had vanished into wary shyness.

The good Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt ignored the boy, choosing to focus his attention on Hoss. This drew a withering glare from Stacy. “Mister Cartwright, I’m here to offer what meager comfort I can at a time like this,” Daniel said, his beatific smile firmly in place. “Sometimes, the will of Almighty God is very hard to accept . . . . ”

This drew a sharp, angry glare from Stacy, seated in the red leather upholstered easy chair once favored by Joe’s mother, Marie.

“What’s the will of Almighty God?” Timmy ventured innocently.

“The will of Almighty God is the will of Almighty God,” Daniel answered in an insultingly condescending manner. “It was and is the will of God that your mother be with Him in Heaven.”

Innocence gave way to shocked horror. “Y-you mean . . . it’s the will of God that my ma died?” he whispered fearfully.

“Yes, Son,” Daniel replied with a touch of smug complacence. “Nothing happens on Earth that is not the will of God.”

“ . . . and it’s the will of God that my ma was hurt so bad first?” Timmy’s eyes, round with shock and horror, glistened with unshed tears.

“Yes, Son,” Daniel said. “I know that must be very hard to accept, but . . . . ”

With a strangled cry of complete and utter despair, Timmy turned heel and fled upstairs, leaving Hoss and Stacy behind, staring after him helplessly.

“Excuse me,” Hoss muttered through clenched teeth, rising. “I’ve got to see to Timmy.

Stacy, would you mind seein’ the good reverend out?”

Stacy rose, glaring down at the clergy man with white hot, murderous fury. “You heard my brother, Reverend,” she said, her tone turning his title into a vile insult.

“I am not leaving until I can sit down with your father, Young Lady,” he said loftily, his address increasing Stacy’s growing rage. “Since I missed him in town this morning, I fully intend to wait right here until he returns.”

“Reverend Hildebrandt, get the bloody hell out of this house,” Stacy ordered. “Now!”

The clergyman deftly pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced down at it, pointedly and insultingly ignoring Stacy.

“Miss Stacy?” It was Hop Sing. “Miss Stacy have trouble?”

“Yes, Hop Sing,” she replied. “Hoss asked me to see Reverend Hildebrandt out, but he seems hell bent on staying where he’s definitely not welcome.”

 

In the yard in front of the Cartwright home, Ben and Joe arrived home, both looking sad and weary. Jonathan, though weary himself after a hard morning’s work, was on hand to take their horses.

“Thanks, Jonathan,” Joe said gratefully, favoring the older individual with a tired, wistful smile.

Ben mutely nodded his thanks, then led the way to the porch. Before either he or his youngest son had a chance to step up on the porch, the front door opened and before their astonished eyes, a flying form, clad almost entirely in black sailed past them and landed ignobly on the dirt just beyond.

“Wow!” Stacy exclaimed from within the house, awe and great respect heard clearly in her voice, and starkly evident on her face. “Hop Sing, I had no idea! Where’d you ever learn moves like that?”

“Shaolin Temple in China,” Hop Sing replied, with a savage grin.

“What in the---!?” Ben sputtered, as he entered the house. “Was that Reverend Hildebrandt?!”

“Yes, it was, Pa,” Stacy replied, her voice unsteady. Her growing fury pushed her relentlessly to the edge of tears. “He was asked to leave, and he refused. Please, excuse me . . . . ” With that, she pushed past Ben and Joe and fled out toward the barn.

“That . . . ****,” the word was Chinese. Ben couldn’t help but notice that his youngest son’s complexion paled significantly. “He come here, get Timmy upset with talk about will of God, then refuse to leave when Mister Hoss and Miss Stacy say,” Hop Sing explained, his own anger smoldering in his dark brown, almost black, eyes. “Hop Sing make him leave. He give Hop Sing no choice.”

“From the sound of things, I probably would have done as you did,” Ben said grimly, “maybe not quite as well . . . . Where’s Hoss?”

“Mister Hoss upstairs with Timmy,” Hop Sing replied.

Ben nodded. “Joe . . . Hop Sing, the two of you’d better dust off the good reverend and see him on his way,” he said, “and Joseph . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“If Reverend Hildebrandt gives you any trouble, let Hop Sing handle it.”

“You bet I will, Pa,” Joe promised eagerly.

“As for me, I’d better go see to Stacy . . . . ”

 

Stacy Cartwright, meanwhile, tore into the barn, tears of rage now spilling freely down her cheeks. She immediately, without thinking, seized the remnants of a wooden box and hurled it across the barn toward the empty stalls on the other side. The abrupt, sweeping movement of her upper body and arms exacerbated the injuries sustained at school the previous day. Crying out in physical pain as well as mental anguish, she wrapped her arms protectively about her abdomen while collapsing hard against the wall behind her.

“Stacy?” Ben was at her side an instant later, his arms around her offering both physical and emotional support.

“Stupid . . . th-that w-was . . . really stupid . . . . ” Stacy barely managed to gasp as she collapsed against Ben.

“Let’s get you back into the house,” Ben said anxiously.

“If . . . if I c-could just . . . sit d-down a minute,” Stacy gasped.

Glancing around, Ben spotted a large bale of hay next to the stall occupied by her horse, Blaze face, who through out the entire exchange, had been whinnying anxiously. He carefully steered her over to the bale of hay, where the two of them sat down together. Blaze Face leaned down and affectionately nuzzled the top of her head.

“Hop Sing told me that Reverend Hildebrandt said something that upset Timmy,” Ben said quietly, placing an arm around her shoulders. “From the looks of things, I’d say he’s upset you, too.”

“He told poor Timmy that his ma’s suffering and dying are all part of God’s Will,” the words tumbled out one after the other, accompanied by a torrent of angry tears. “I couldn’t believe my ears! That was cruel!”

“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Ben declared with a scowl. “Reverend Hildebrandt had no business saying that to a child, especially a child as young as Timmy.”

“I . . . I can’t understand it, Pa,” Stacy dolefully shook her head.

Ben handed her a handkerchief, then fell silent, trying to gather his thoughts. “Stacy, many people DO believe that all the bad that happens in this world, and all the good, too, is the will of God. A lot of them even find comfort in the idea, especially through the bad times.”

Stacy looked over at him, openly skeptical. “How can anyone find comfort in a God who wills bad things to happen to people . . . like what happened to Miss O’Toole?”

“It’s not so much that,” Ben explained. “I think they really find comfort in the idea that there’s Someone out there who’s bigger than themselves and whatever besets them,” Ben said.

“You and Silver Moon have always taught me that God is a loving God,” Stacy said, her voice still unsteady, “and I know that to be true. I’ve felt Her Love myself many times, and I can see it in the kind of people you and Silver Moon are.” She sighed, and blew her nose gingerly. “I don’t know why bad things happen, Pa, but I know it’s NOT the will of God. It can’t be! No God who loves as She does could possibly will what happened to Miss O’Toole.”

“I agree with you, Stacy,” Ben said quietly. “I know God is with us during the bad times, and gives us strength and comfort to see us through them, but I can’t believe for one minute that God actually wills them, either.”

“Pa, why do bad things happen, like what happened to Miss O’Toole?” Stacy asked.

“The answer I have isn’t any easier than believing it to be the will of God,” Ben said earnestly. “I believe people are capable of great good, and great evil. I also believe that we’ve been given the freedom to choose. What happened to Miss O’Toole wasn’t the will of God, but the will . . . and choice of a very sick, twisted man.”

“What about people who make horrible choices like that?” Stacy asked, frowning as her anger began to rise once more.

“The man who hurt and killed Miss O’Toole will have to answer for what he did,” Ben said firmly, “ideally in a court of law.”

“What if Sheriff Coffee can’t find him?” Stacy asked.

“Then he’ll have to answer to a judge far more terrible,” Ben replied.

“Which judge is that?”

“God,” Ben answered.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Mister Cartwright.” Jonathan stepped out from the stall occupied by Joe’s mount, Cochise, with Joe’s saddle in both hands. He placed the saddle on its rack, then turned his attention back to Ben and Stacy. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing . . . . ”

“Probably everyone within ten miles of the Ponderosa heard, especially when I threw that box,” Stacy said wincing in both physical pain and contrition.

“Has the pain lessened any?” Ben asked, remembering again her fractured ribs.

“Some,” Stacy said, “but I still hurt a lot worse than I did when I came out here.”

“You think maybe I should ride into town and fetch Doc Martin?” Jonathan asked.

“That might not be a bad idea,” Ben agreed, “just to be on the safe side.”

 

“I HATE GOD, I HATE GOD, I HATE GOD!” Timmy screamed, as he furiously pounded the pillow beneath him with his two small, tightly balled fists.

“Timmy, stop it,” Hoss said. “You don’t mean that!”

“Oh, yes I do,” Timmy sobbed. “God willed that my ma should get hurt real bad, and then die. I hate Him for that, I hate Him!”

“Timmy, I want you to set yourself up here an’ look at me,” Hoss said in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

Timmy rolled over on his back, and looked up at Hoss. The tears, born of anguish and fury, still glistened on his face.

“Now sit yourself up,” Hoss said.

Sobbing, Timmy pulled himself up to a sitting position and crossed his legs.

Hoss handed the boy a handkerchief. “I want you to listen to me an’ I want you to listen good,” he said. “Reverend Hildebrandt was dead WRONG when he said what he did ‘bout your ma dyin’ ‘cause it was the will o’ God.”

“B-but, he’s a minister,” Timmy wailed. “Abel Caine says he’s a man of God, and that he knows all there is to know about God.”

“Timmy, there ain’t no man or woman either, for that matter, that knows all there is t’ know ‘bout God,” Hoss said. “Anyone who says so is either just plain foolish, or lyin’ right through his teeth.”

“Even ministers?”

“ESPECIALLY ministers sometimes!” Hoss said. “My pa taught me, my brothers, and my sister that God is a God o’ LOVE. No God o’ love is gonna will for your ma t’ get hurt like she did, or will for her to die.”

“Hoss Cartwright, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Hoss and Timmy looked up and saw Miss Tess standing framed in the doorway, hands on her hips, and a big smile on her face.

“Miss Tess, come on in,” Hoss invited, as he rose to his feet.

Tess entered and sat down on the bed beside Timmy. “That Reverend Hildebrandt’s been a pain in that part of my anatomy which comes in contact with the saddle, too,” she said. “Timmy, I want you to promise me you’ll remember what Mister Hoss said, no matter what Reverend Hildebrandt or anyone else for that matter, tells you about the will o’ God.”

“Gee, Miss Tess, you sure know an awful lot about God, and about Heaven,” Timmy said, wiping his eyes against the heel of his hand.

“Well, Timmy, when you’ve been around as long as I have . . . . ”

“As long as you have, Miss Tess?” he queried, his eyes round as saucers. “How long have you been around?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been around for a very, very, VERY long time,” Tess said with a mysterious smile. “And anyone who’s been around that long is bound to pick up a nugget of information about God here and there.”

“Do YOU know all there is to know about God?” the boy asked.

Tess laughed gently. Her laughter had a melodic quality that brought with it a balm for troubled spirit and soul. Hoss could feel its warmth penetrate deep into his own heart, and even into the very marrow of his bones. Looking over at Timmy, so troubled and angry a scant few moments ago, Hoss could see that the boy benefited as well.

“Baby,” Tess said, “if you stack what I know about God against how much there is to LEARN about God, by comparison it amounts to a single drop of water against a vast and deep ocean. I have a lot of questions about God going through my head, but it seems every time I answer one, that answer turns around and asks a hundred MORE questions.”

“Really?” Timmy asked in a small, shy, awestruck voice.

“Yes, Baby, really,” Tess said.

“Now you’re takin’ the words right out o’ MY mouth, Miss Tess,” Hoss said, smiling.

“Timmy, you feel up to crackin’ a few o’ them schoolbooks with your teacher?”

The boy nodded eagerly, drying the last of his tears on Hoss’ handkerchief.

“In that case, I’m gonna mosey on downstairs an’ letcha git to it,” Hoss said.

 

Satisfied that Timmy was in excellent hands with Miss Tess, and that the worst his upsetting encounter with Reverend Hildebrandt lay behind him, Hoss went downstairs in search of his father. He found Ben seated at his usual place at the dining room table with Stacy seated at his right. He noted with consternation that his sister seemed to be in worse agony than ever.

“Timmy’s upstairs having his lessons with Miss Tess,” Hoss said, seating himself across the table from his sister. “What happened to YOU, Little Sister?” he asked.

“I went out to the barn, after . . . after H-Hop Sing threw R-Reverend Hildebrandt . . . out of the house, and . . . and threw a temper tantrum,” Stacy ruefully confessed. “He . . . he really made me mad, Big Brother . . . w-with all those horrible things he said to Timmy.”

“Dadburn it, that man o’ the cloth oughtta be tarred and feathered, then run outta town on a rail,” Hoss said, his mouth and lower jaw muscles tightening in anger.

Hop Sing entered from the kitchen with a mug filled to the brim with the noxious pain deadening tea. “Miss Stacy drink,” he said, placing the steaming mug before her. “Must drink while hot.”

“Hop Sing, that ain’t much better than the stuff you been makin’ Stacy drink at breakfast and at dinner,” Hoss said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I could almost swear that concoction smells like Li’l Joe’s dirty socks.”

“Big Brother, you’re right!” Stacy laughed, and instantly regretted it.

“Drink, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing urged.

Stacy hefted the mug, held her nose, and drank.

“Pa, you mind if we step outside a minute?” Hoss asked. “I have something real important I need to discuss with you.”

“Go ahead, Pa,” Stacy said immediately, when Ben cast an anxious glance in her direction. “I’m in good hands with Hop Sing.”

“Alright . . . . ” Ben rose and followed Hoss outside. “What is it, Son?”

“Pa, I’ve been thinkin’ about adoptin’ Timmy,” Hoss said coming straight to the point.

Ben’s eyes went round with surprise. “This is kind of sudden, Hoss,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Hoss allowed. “He’s only been with us a couple o’ days, but, I love ‘im, Pa. I do.”

“I know you and Timmy have been inseparable since that morning you, Stacy, and Molly found him home alone,” Ben said. “I can see that you’ve had a lot of fun being together, and that’s been good, Son, for Timmy and for you, too. But, there’s a lot more to being a father than simply having fun being together.”

“I know that,” Hoss said. “Bein’ a good pa means teachin’ the boy the difference between right an’ wrong, responsibility, courtesy, respect for others and himself, bein’ there for him when he needs me to be, and knowin’ when to give him the space he needs to try his own wings. I’ve been thinkin’ about all that, too, Pa.”

“I hope you know that none of it’s easy,” Ben said gravely. “As hard as I’ve thought raising you boys and Stacy was going to be, there’s been many, many times I’ve wished it were only that EASY.”

“Pa, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure . . . . ”

“Did you ever regret takin’ the lot o’ us on?” Hoss asked. “I’ve known a lot o’ folks who found themselves widowed suddenly, who farmed their kids out t’ other relatives, even put ‘em up for adoption.”

Ben smiled. “No, Hoss, I’ve never regretted it one bit, taking the lot of you on,” he replied.

“I feel the same way about Timmy, Pa.”

“Have you talked with Timmy about this?”

Hoss shook his head. “Not yet, Pa,” he replied. “I wanted to talk with you first.”

Ben fell silent for a moment, contemplating. “He’s a fine boy, Hoss,” he said finally, at length, “one I’d be real proud to call grandson . . . . ”

Hoss smiled. “Thanks, Pa.”

“Assuming this is all ok with Timmy, too, next time we’re in town, we can stop by Lucas Milburn’s office and ask him to start making inquiries about possible next of kin,” Ben said slowly.

“We’ll do it, Pa,” Hoss said.

 

Jonathan Smith, meanwhile, saddled Blaze Face, at Ben’s suggestion and with Stacy’s permission, for his trip to Doctor Martin’s office in Virginia City. The horse’s opportunities for exercise had diminished considerably due to Stacy’s injuries. While it was quite obvious that the girl’s angry outburst had caused her considerably more pain and anguish, Jonathan felt reasonably certain that she hadn’t brought additional harm upon herself.

As he rode toward Virginia City, his thoughts centered on Reverend Hildebrandt. The man had proven a very painful, if mostly proverbial, thorn in the flesh for Tess, almost from the first day she arrived in Virginia City. Jonathan smiled as he remembered reading through one particular report . . . .

 

 _Tess, to whom singing came as naturally and as easily as breathing, told the school board that she wanted to add music to the school curriculum. Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt was adamantly opposed. At his instigation, most of the regular churchgoers turned up at the School Board Meeting called to debate and decide the issue._

 _“Singing,” the reverend declared in a lofty, imperious tone, “is for the praise of God. As such, it belongs within the hallowed walls of a church, NOT in a school room.” He grimaced when saying the last two words, as if they had been rancid, over spiced morsels of food._

 _“You call the singing that comes from your church praise to God?” Tess demanded indignantly, standing like a prizefighter with her feet shoulder length apart, hands firmly, squarely, and defiantly on her hips. “I’ve heard livelier music at funerals!”_

 _The head of the school board, an elderly gentleman, whose mind remained sharp as a tack, laughed out loud. “I gotta agree with ya there, Miss Tess,” he said, when his mirth had finally begun to subside. “You can have your music program, on one condition.”_

 _“And that is?” Tess queried warily._

 _“You don’t teach ‘em anything deader than funeral music,” he quipped, with a long, meaningful glance at Reverend Hildebrandt . . . ._

 

Jonathan reached Doctor Martin’s office in relatively short order. He tethered Blaze Face just outside the doctor’s office, then bounded over to the door and knocked.

“You’re the new man working for Ben,” the doctor said by way of greeting, when he opened the door. “Jonathan, right?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonathan replied. “Mister Cartwright sent me to fetch you. Seems Stacy may have, at the very least, suffered a bit of a set back. He’d like you to come check her out . . . make sure everything’s still alright.”

Paul Martin shook his head. “All the patience that kid has can easily fit on the head of a pin and leave lots of room to spare,” he said, shaking his head. “What did she do?”

“She picked up a wooden box in the barn and threw it in a fit of temper,” Jonathan replied. “She immediately realized the stupidity of her actions, but everyone pretty much agreed they were justified.”

“Oh?”

“Reverend Hildebrandt came out to the Ponderosa earlier this afternoon to pay a condolence call,” Jonathan explained, his mouth and jaw muscles tightening in anger. “He sat there going on and on about how Miss O’Toole’s injuries and death were the will of God. He upset Timmy terribly, and sparked off Stacy’s hot Irish temper at the same time.”

Paul frowned. “Something about that man really puts me off, too,” he admitted. “The last time I sat in church on a Sunday morning was Reverend Hildebrandt’s first Sunday. I’ve not been back since, and I don’t intend to go back unless and until they fire him or he decides to move on himself.”

Jonathan made a mental note to ask Tess about Reverend Hildebrandt, the next time he saw her.

“I’ll come with you now, Jonathan,” the doctor said. “I just need to fetch my bag, then let Lily know I’m going.”

Jonathan nodded, as the doctor made his way toward his examination room.

There was a hesitant knock on the front door.

“Jonathan, would you mind getting that?” the doctor asked.

“Not at all,” Jonathan replied. He walked over to the door and opened it. A young man with reddish blonde hair, attired in a pair of gray pants, white shirt, and yellow ochre leather vest stood outside. Jonathan knew from the swollen eyelids and upper lip that the young man had been crying almost incessantly for a number of hours.

“Is . . . Is D-Doc Martin in?” the young man ventured hesitantly.

“Yes, but he’s getting ready to ride with me out to the Ponderosa,” Jonathan replied. “Is your need an emergency?”

“No, I’m . . . I’m n-not here as a patient, actually . . . . ” The young man closed his eyes and forced himself to take shallow breaths, one after the other, after the other, in alarming rapid succession. He felt the room spinning, even though his eyes remained squeezed tight shut, and lungs laboring mightily to expand against muscle and bone that had suddenly turned from flesh to hard granite. His stance wavered . . . .

“Please . . . come inside,” Jonathan kindly invited, as he took firm hold of the young man’s arm and drew him into the Martins’ home. He steered him down the short distance between front door and entrance to the formal parlor and sat him down into the nearest chair. “Lean over,” Jonathan admonished the young man, “and take deep breaths . . . slow and easy.”

The young man dropped his mouth open and began gulping in lungful after lungful, with the same greedy intensity a man, dying of thirst in the desert, gulps down water, if he’s lucky enough to find it.

“Easy!” Jonathan ordered, his concern for the young man’s well being giving his tone of voice a sharp edge. “Take it easy!”

It took nearly every ounce of will the young man possessed to keep his breaths slow and even. Finally, after what seemed to him a dreadful eternity, the muscles and bones within his chest began to relax, allowing him to breathe easier and the lightheadedness to dissipate. “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully, upon lifting his head.

“You all right?” Jonathan gently inquired.

“Yeah,” the young man replied. “Yeah . . . leastwise I WILL be.” He slowly raised his head and upper torso, taking great pains to keep his movements slow and fluid. “I, uhhh . . . don’t believe we’ve met,” he murmured softly as he sagged heavily against the back of the chair he occupied. “My name’s William Caine.”  
“Jonathan Smith,” Jonathan introduced himself, as he shook hands with the young man. “Caine . . . . ” he mused aloud. “You any relation to Judge Caine?”

“He’s my father,” the young man replied. “He’s William Caine Senior, I’m William Caine Junior. You . . . know my father, Mister Smith?”

“Please call me Jonathan.”

“Alright, Jonathan, if you’ll call me Bill. That’s what most people call me.”

“Alright, Bill,” Jonathan said with a smile. “To answer to your question, I’ve heard your father’s name come up in the course of a conversation or two, but I’ve never met him.”

Bill closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief. “You been in Virginia City long?”

“I arrived a couple of days ago,” Jonathan replied.

“Where are you staying?”

“Right now I’m living and working at a big spread called Ponderosa.”

“Ben Cartwright’s place.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan nodded. “You a friend of his?”

“I know Mister Cartwright, but I can’t rightly say he and I are friends,” Bill replied. “I went to school with his youngest son.”

“Then you’re a friend of JOE’S.”

Bill wearily shook his head. “We’re civil to one another . . . barely, a miracle in and of itself actually, given the animosity between us when we were kids.”

“You still living in Virginia City?” Jonathan asked.

“No,” Bill shook his head. “My home’s back east now, in Boston. I came back to Virginia City to . . . visit a . . . a very good friend of m-mine . . . only to find out she’s dead.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Jonathan said, every sense suddenly on the alert. “Who’s your friend, if you don’t mind me asking . . . . ?”

“Her name’s Lotus O’Toole,” Bill’s voice broke heart wrenchingly when he spoke her name. “That’s why I’ve come,” the words tumbled out one after the other. “I heard that her funeral was going to be held here day after tomorrow. I wanted to know what time.”  
Something in the way he spoke Miss O’Toole’s name coupled with a deep-seated grief bordering on the edge of utter despair, caught and held Jonathan’s attention in an ironclad, vice like grip. He studied the distressed young man seated before him. The shape of the eyes, nose, and face, the big hands with long fingers . . . revelation collapsed upon Jonathan like a brick wall tumbling to the ground. He was standing face to face with none other than Timmy O’Toole’s father.

 

“Stacy Rose Cartwright, you’re a very lucky young woman,” Doctor Paul Martin castigated his young patient severely, “even if that burst of temper WAS justified.”

He and Ben were upstairs with the patient in her bedroom. Stacy sat very stiffly on the edge of her bed, feeling sorer than ever, after the doctor had finished his poking and prodding.

“Does that mean everything’s all right?” Ben asked anxiously.

“Yes, Ben,” Paul responded in a kindlier tone. “That means everything’s all right.”

“Thank goodness,” Ben exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

“As for YOU, Stacy, I have one word,” Paul said sternly, “rest! No more angry outbursts like that no matter HOW justified, and I don’t want you to set foot outside this house for another week, at the very least. Is THAT clear?”

Stacy’s face fell. “Y-you mean . . . I can’t go to Miss O’Toole’s funeral?!”

“You may, IF you ride in the buggy, and IF you don’t set foot outside this house the rest of the time,” Paul said severely. “Do I have your word on that?”

“Yes, Doctor Martin,” Stacy promised contritely.

“Stacy, why don’t you lie down and rest . . . maybe even take a nap?” Ben suggested.   
“We’ll call you for supper.”

“Alright, Pa,” she agreed with uncharacteristic meekness.

“Thanks again for coming out, Paul,” Ben said gratefully, as they made their way down the stairs.

“Any time, Ben,” Paul said. “To be honest, when Jonathan told me about her hurling that box across the barn, I was somewhat concerned. Thankfully, everything’s alright.”

“Amen to that!”

“Keep giving her the pills an hour before bedtime,” Paul moved into his litany of instructions, “and tell Hop Sing he can keep giving her those unholy herbal brews at his discretion.”

Ben smiled, as they stepped through the front door. “That tea Hop Sing gives Stacy may smell like a pole cat that’s just let loose, to quote my middle son, but it DOES seem to bring her a measure of relief.”

“That’s good,” Paul said approvingly, “on the other hand, however, there’s nothing like a healthy dose of agony to enforce convalescence.” He shook his head. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Ben, but that daughter of yours is enough to try the patience of a saint whenever she’s sick or injured.”

Ben chucked. “I CAN”T take that the wrong way, Paul, because I know it’s true,” he said. “Of course, as Roy Coffee was so kind to point out to me yesterday, Adam, Hoss, Joe, and I aren’t any better.”

“That’s very true, also,” Paul agreed wholeheartedly.

“Thanks a lot,” Ben laughed out loud.

The two men paused next to the physician’s buggy.

“Ben,” the doctor said, taking great care to lower his voice, “any idea what’s going to happen to Timmy?”

“Well, Hoss told me earlier this after noon that he wants to adopt Timmy,” Ben said.

“Really?” the doctor queried in surprise. He fell silent, mulling over this piece of news, while he hefted his black bag onto the floor of the buggy. “Well . . . the pair of ‘em have certainly been inseparable since Miss O’Toole died, and I think Hoss would make a fine father, Ben,” the doctor said slowly, thoughtfully. “I’d be pretty hard pressed to name a more kind, gentle, loving, and caring individual, man OR woman, than your son, Hoss.”

Ben smiled. “That’s all very true,” he agreed.

“ . . . and when it comes to learning how to be a father, Hoss has had one of the best teachers I know,” Paul added with a smile.

“Thank you, Paul,” Ben said quietly. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Ben.”

“Keep it under your hat for the time being,” Ben said. “Hoss hasn’t as yet broached the matter with Timmy, and we’ve certainly not told the rest of the family.”

“Gotcha, Ben, mum’s the word.”

 

The day set for Lotus O’Toole’s funeral observances dawned bright and sunny. The sky overhead was a brilliant azure hue, and the autumn air clean and crisp. Outside Virginia City, the aspens and cottonwoods colored the landscape with their brilliant yellow leaves, shimmering like gold dust when the occasional breeze wafted through their leaves. The thin, gossamer cirrus clouds veiling the horizon and the scent of snow carried on the winds warned those knowledgeable in reading the signs of coming weather that winter would come early this year.

The Martins’ formal parlor was filled with mourners crowded around the closed coffin holding the remains of Lotus O’Toole. They included Timmy O’Toole, Paul and Lily Martin, the entire Cartwright Family including Hop Sing, Miss Tess, Francis O’Hanlan and his daughter, Molly, all of the people who worked at the Silver Dollar Saloon, and Sheriff Roy Coffee. Jenna Wilkes Cantrell and her husband were also present, both of them having arrived from Carson City the night before that she might pay her last respects to Lotus O’Toole. Clarissa Starling Wilson was also there. Classes at the school were canceled for the day, and the Silver Dollar Saloon closed until tomorrow night.

Joe Cartwright and Sally Tyler stood together, side by side, at the head of the coffin. Sally, with head bowed, dabbed her eyes frequently with a white linen handkerchief. Clad in a tailored navy blue suit, with matching pillbox hat and gloves, and a plain white linen blouse, she presented the classic image of matronly respectability, a far cry from the bubbly, flirtatious, party girl demeanor she presented every night at the Silver Dollar Saloon. Joe, his posture ramrod straight and hands clasped tightly in front of him, scanned the sea of faces, gathered in the Martins’ parlor, all turned toward him expectantly. The weariness, shock, and grief were all readily apparent in his face. Timmy O’Toole, dressed in his best pair of slacks and a freshly laundered, pressed white shirt stood on Joe’s right, sandwiched between Hoss and Miss Tess, stubbornly trying to hold back his tears.

Joe Cartwright turned toward Sally and Sam, standing at the latter’s left. “I just heard the mantle clock strike ten,” he said in a low voice. “Are you expecting anyone else, Sam?”

The big, beefy bartender shook his head, unable to speak.

“I guess we might as well get started,” Joe said slowly, with much reluctance.

Sam nodded.

Joe looked up, making eye contact with his father, standing at the foot of the coffin, with open Bible in hand. “Pa . . . . ”

Ben nodded, and began to read, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels . . . . ”

There was a knock at the front door.

“Excuse me, I’ll see who it is,” Paul Martin said quickly. He stepped out of the parlor and hurried to the door, praying the caller without hadn’t come with a medical emergency. He opened the door, and found William Caine, Junior, standing there, his face red and swollen from weeping.

“S-sorry I’m late, Doctor M-Martin,” the young man hastily stammered out an apology.   
“May I . . . . ”

“Yes, by all means, come in,” Paul Martin said quickly. “We’re just getting started.”

Bill entered and followed Paul into the parlor, taking his place behind the doctor and his wife.

Joe watched his once and former classmate enter through eyes round with shock and astonishment. For one brief, terrifying moment, he thought for sure he was going to faint. The sound of his father softly, yet pointedly, clearing his throat, served to steady him.

“ ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or a clanging cymbal,’ ” Ben began to read again from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians the well known passage about love. “ ‘Though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.’ ”

Stacy, standing beside her father, on his left, bowed her head and bit her lip, as her own tears began to flow freely down her cheeks. It hadn’t been so long ago her father had read those same words, at the request of herself and brother, Hoss, at the funeral of Miss Paris McKenna, her own mother. Francis O’Hanlan handed Stacy a handkerchief, while placing a comforting arm about the shoulders of his own daughter, Molly, now weeping openly.

Molly turned, burying her head against the comforting strength of her father’s shoulder.  
“ ‘Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing,’ ” Ben continued, his deep bass voice caressing the words of the well beloved passage.

A tiny, bare hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Tess’ mouth. She had never heard those words spoken with such quiet, passionate conviction before, not even from the fellow who first penned them.

“ ‘Love suffers long and is kind,’ ” Ben continued. “ ‘Love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.’ ” [1]

“I’ve known Lotus O’Toole since the day the two of us started first grade at the school here in Virginia City,” Joe began. “We were best friends right from the start. She was really a true friend. I’d be hard pressed to name any friend I’ve had before or since who was more steadfast and loyal.” He fell silent, surprised by the sudden onslaught of unshed tears stinging his eyes. He had cried so much in the past three days since Lotus O’Toole died, he honestly thought there were no more tears left in him to shed.

Joe swallowed, then took a deep, ragged breath. “I had m-my f-father read that passage just now . . . that p-passage usually r-r-read at . . . at weddings,” he continued, his voice breaking, “because . . . because Lotus O’Toole was one of the m-most loving and g-generous . . . p-people . . . it-s ever been my privilege t-to . . . to know . . . . ”

Ben, with his Bible tucked under one arm and the other around Stacy’s shoulders, gazed at his youngest son intently and lovingly, trying to will some of his own strength into Joe, that the latter might be able to finish.

Hoss reached over and gently placed his hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. Joe slowly turned, his hazel eyes meeting his big brother’s blue ones. Hoss flashed him a quick, reassuring smile.

Joe swallowed and forced himself to continue. “I r-remember reading about a . . . a . . . b-birth day party for . . . it was f-for Timmy . . . h-his first . . . . ” With a strangled cry, he turned away unable to continue. He would have almost certainly bolted from the room had it not been to Tess’ gentle, restraining hand.

“You can do it, Baby,” Tess said softly, her serene black eyes meeting the sadness and raw grief in his. “Just take a deep breath and speak from the heart.”

Joe, his eyes riveted to Tess’ face, took a long, slow, deep breath, and continued. “I was reading the other night about Timmy’s first birthday party,” his voice was strong and steady. “It was an entry in her diary, written in a secret language that Lotus and I made up when we were kids. She marveled at the way everyone at the party was so enamored . . . so taken with Timmy.” Joe looked over at the boy and smiled. “I think one reason everyone loved Timmy was because we had all loved his ma first.”

Jenna Cantrell buried her face in the handkerchief she held in both hands and began to sob anew. Her husband placed a comforting arm about her waist, and hugged her close.

“I’ll always remember Lotus O’Toole for her sense of fun and adventure when we were kids,” Joe continued. “Once, I think we were in fourth grade, Lotus and I decided to make careers for ourselves as pirates. With HER as captain, and me as first mate, we planned to loot enemy merchant ships of their treasure and bury it where the shores of Lake Tahoe cut through the Ponderosa.”

Timmy’s eyes, shining with awe and excitement, were fixed on Joe’s face, as he related the story. This was a side of his mother he never dreamed existed.

“Captain Lotus and First Mate Joe put together a raft and launched it on its maiden voyage,” Joe continued, with a sad wistful smile. “About ten feet from shore, our raft came apart. We didn’t properly secure the logs together. We swam back to shore and instead of becoming the scourge of Lake Tahoe, we ended up being confined to our rooms for a week . . . and for the better part of that week Lotus and I didn’t do very much sitting, either.”

Joe’s story brought smiles along with tears to the faces among many of the people present, most notably Miss Tess.

“Lotus and I were constantly getting into mischief . . . ending up in one scrape after another,” Joe said. “What one of us DIDN’T think up, the other DID. Lotus’ grandmother was always shaking her head, warning us that we worked our guardian angels overtime.”

 _“You sure did, Joe,”_ Tess agreed silently. All eight of them took a long sabbatical from the guardian end of things the minute Joe Cartwright and Lotus O’Toole entered adolescence and disdainfully put the misadventures of childhood behind them.

“I’ll also remember her as a loving mother joyfully welcoming Timmy into the world,” Joe continued. “She worked hard to provide for him, but I can safely say that everyone who knew Lotus O’Toole knew that hard work was truly a labor of love undertaken with joy.”

Joe’s nostalgic, sad smile faded into a mask of deep, profound grief and regret. “Lotus was also a proud, stubborn woman determined to make her own way in the w-world . . . and provide th-the best she could . . . for Timmy,” his voice wavered. “She . . . she couldn’t buy Timmy a l-lot of the t-toys . . . and f-fancy clothes a lot of kids take for granted . . . but the things she c-could and . . . and did provide . . . love, encouragement . . . r-respect, a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on . . . arms to hug . . . . Those are the most important things a mother . . . or father, for that matter,” he looked up, his eyes meeting his father’s, “can give a ch-child. Lotus was n-not only wealthy beyond measure in all those things, she freely and g-generously gave of those . . . those things to her son.”

Sally Tyler, with tears streaming down her own face, turned and put her arms around Joe, now sobbing openly. She held him for a long moment, then turned to speak her piece. Like Joe, she, too, would always remember Lotus O’Toole as a loving parent, who, though she doted on Timmy, expected a great deal from him as well, effectively striking that difficult balance between love and discipline. She also spoke of Lotus O’Toole’s generosity.

When Sally finished speaking, Molly O’Hanlan, holding tight to her father’s hand, wept openly as she told the others how important it was to Miss O’Toole that Timmy get the best education he possibly could, how proud she was of her son’s class work, and how his eagerness to learn never ceased to delight her. Sam, his posture stiffly erect, his hands tightly clasped in front of him, praised her loyalty, steadfastness, and reliability, not only as an employee, but as a friend, as tears freely rolled from his eyes and down his cheeks. Others followed, one by one, sharing their own precious memories of Lotus O’Toole, until at long last, words faded gracefully to respectful silence, punctuated only by the occasional soft hiccupping sound of someone weeping.

After observing a time of silence, the six pallbearers, which included Sam, Hoss, and Joe, moved with one accord, without prompting, to surround the coffin. Paul Martin quickly and noiselessly moved to open the necessary doors. The pallbearers carried the coffin from the doctor’s house to the buckboard waiting in front of the doctor’s house. Hoss climbed up first, and took hold of the reins. Joe handed Timmy up to his brother, then turned to help Miss Tess, then Sally Tyler into the back seat. Sam climbed up and sat down in the back seat next to Sally. Joe climbed up last, and settled himself in the front seat beside Timmy. The other mourners got into their buggies, up on buckboards, or in the saddle for the ride out to the cemetery, a few miles outside of town.

“When I went to see Timmy the day after his mother died, I told him that God has a special place in His Heart and in Heaven for people like his mother,” Tess spoke in a clear voice to the mourners encircling the freshly opened grave. “After hearing the eulogies so warmly and lovingly offered by Joe Cartwright and Sally Tyler, along with the memories the rest of you cherish, I am more convinced of that than ever. Lotus O’Toole is in Heaven, basking in the warm radiant love of God.” She paused to allow the people assembled to begin digesting those words. “I think we need to know that God loves all of us, too, who miss Lotus O’Toole, and find ourselves deeply shocked and saddened by her passing. God’s love and strength WILL see all of us through this time of grief and mourning to that place of healing. All WE need to do is let him.”

There was a brief time of silence, as the coffin was carefully lowered into the earth. Ben Cartwright read the Twenty-Third Psalm, concluding the funeral rituals.

 

Breakfast in the Cartwright household the following morning was subdued. Ben and Joe had a good appetite, and Hoss ate with his usual relish. Timmy, his face pale and eyes red from crying, clearly had no appetite for food this morning. Stacy had come downstairs, late for breakfast, her agony worse than it had ever been. Not even Hop Sing’s homemade herbal teas could bring her any kind of relief.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . I can’t eat another . . . thing,” she said haltingly, wincing on every word. “Can I . . . can I go out t-to the b-b-barn and . . . and see B-Blaze Face?”

Ben looked over at his daughter incredulously, for a moment, as if she had suddenly sprouted a magnificent pair of green antlers. “I’m sorry, Stacy, but you promised Doctor Martin you wouldn’t set foot outside this house, remember?” he said, wincing inwardly each time she drew breath.

“I’d . . . forgotten,” Stacy groaned.

“Would you like to go back to bed for awhile?” Ben asked gently.

Stacy nodded. “M-may I . . . may I b-be excused?”

“Go ahead up,” Ben said. “I’ll look in on you later.” Stacy rose from her chair with agonizing slowness and made her way toward the stairs. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Pa?” Joe responded in a quiet, weary tone.

“Were you planning on going into town today?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “I thought I’d go ahead and pick up the mail, and run a few errands.”

“Would you mind doing a couple of things for me?”

“Not at all, Pa.”

“First of all, I have money in the safe that needs to be deposited in the bank,” Ben replied.

“Second, would you please stop by Doc Martin’s office and ask whether or not I can give Stacy one of those pills in the day time . . . at least for the next couple of days.”

“Sure,” Joe finished the last of his coffee, and rose. “I’d better get moving.”

“See you later, Son,” Ben said by way of parting.

“Come on, Timmy, how ‘bout another piece o’ that bacon?” Hoss coaxed.

“No, thank you, Mister Hoss,” Timmy said softly, shaking his head. “I’m not hungry. Can I be excused?”

“Timmy, how about we take a walk out to the barn?” Hoss suggested.

“Ok,” Timmy agreed readily enough, but without much enthusiasm.

 

Timmy and Hoss left the table and walked together in silence out to the barn. Hoss opened the door, and gestured for the boy to enter.

“Let’s sit down over here,” Hoss said quietly, pointing the bale of hay near the stall occupied by Blaze Face. Timmy let Hoss take him by the hand, following along meekly, without a word. Hoss sat down first, then patted the vacant space. “You set yourself down right here,” he said.

Timmy obeyed.

“Timmy, I know something’s botherin’ you,” Hoss said kindly, coming straight to the point. “I thought maybe you an’ I could talk about it here, just us, man to man.”

Timmy suddenly burst into tears. “M-Mister Hoss . . . what’s g-gonna happen t-to m-m-me?”

Hoss put his arms around the distraught boy, and hugged him close. “We talked a little about that the other day, Timmy,” he said quietly. “Do you remember?”

“I . . . I remember you asking me if . . . if I wanted to live h-here . . . at the Ponderosa,” Timmy sobbed.

“Do you still want to?”

Timmy lifted his head and gazed up at Hoss in astonished bewilderment. “C-can I?” he ventured very hesitantly in a very small voice.

“Yes, you can, if you want to,” Hoss replied.

“I DO want to live here, Mister Hoss, more ‘n just about anything,” the boy declared. He impulsively turned and threw his small arms about Hoss’ ample girth.

“I want you to live here, too, Timmy,” Hoss said with a smile, “more ‘n just about anything.” He paused. “I’d like to ask you about something else, too.”

Timmy raised his head once again, his dark eyes meeting Hoss’ blue ones.

“I know you never got to know your real pa,” Hoss said quietly. “You told me before that your ma said he couldn’t be with the two o’ you.”

Timmy nodded.

“Timmy,” Hoss said, “since your ma can’t be with ya now, either, how would you feel about . . . well, about havin’ ME as your pa?”

Timmy gazed up at Hoss too overwhelmed to speak.

“I know this is a bit sudden,” Hoss said quietly. “If ya need to think it over . . . . ”

“No, Mister Hoss, I don’t need to think it over,” the words suddenly poured from his mouth in a rush. “Can you really be my pa? Really?”

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “I can adopt you. That would make you m’ son and me your pa.”

“What about YOUR pa?”

“He’d be your GRANDPA, Timmy,” Hoss replied.

“I . . . I never had a grandpa before,” Timmy said, his voice filled with awe and wonder. “Ma used to talk about HER grandma and grandpa . . . . What about Stacy and Mister Joe?”

“They’d be your aunt ‘n uncle,” Hoss replied.

“Not even MA had an aunt and uncle,” the boy exclaimed. “Would Stacy still teach me how to ride?”

“She can HELP teach you to ride, Timmy,” Hoss replied, “but, if I’m gonna be your pa, teachin’ you t’ ride ‘d be MY job.”

“Yes, Mister Hoss,” Timmy turned and hugged Hoss again. “I want you to be my pa, even more ‘n I want to live on the Ponderosa. Will I still go to school?”

Hoss grinned. “Yer durn tootin’,” he said firmly. “That was somethin’ your ma always wanted for ya, an’ I mean to see to it!”

“When can you . . . what’s the word again, Mister Hoss?”

“Adopt.”

“When can you adopt me, Mister Hoss?”

“Seein’ as how you want me to be your pa, I’ll be goin’ to our lawyer in Virginia City an’ askin’ him to send out letters t’ different places to make sure your ma didn’t have any other kin,” Hoss explained.

“Even if she didn’t?” Timmy asked.

“Mister Milburn, our lawyer, has t’ make sure, Timmy,” Hoss said. “That’s the law.”

“Oh,” Timmy accepted this. “How long before he knows?”

“How ever long it take him t’ get replies back,” Hoss replied. “It could be up to a year, maybe even a little more.”

“Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?”

“Can I start callin’ you pa NOW?” he asked.

“You want to start callin’ me pa?”

Timmy nodded eagerly.

“Then you can start callin’ me pa.”

Timmy rose and threw his arms around Hoss’ neck with gleeful, childish abandon. “I love you, Pa,” he declared.

“I love you, too, Timmy.” Hoss, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes, put his arm around the boy and hugged him close. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if his own father had felt this way the first time he held his brothers and himself as babies, and the first time he met Stacy at Fort Charlotte.

 

“Yes, Joe, tell your pa to give Stacy a whole pill this afternoon, and a half a pill at bedtime,” Paul Martin said gravely. “Tomorrow and the next day, he can give her a whole pill at breakfast and another whole pill right after supper.”

“I think I’d better write this down,” Joe said.

The doctor picked up a pencil and a pad of paper from his desk. He jotted down his instructions, taking great care to keep his writing legible. Lily had been teasing him about that a great deal of late. He tore off the top sheet and passed it to Joe.

Joe accepted the sheet of paper and cast a cursory glance over the instructions.

“Any questions?”

Joe shook his head. “Everything’s perfectly clear, Doctor,” he said, folding the sheet in half and slipping it inside the inner pocket of his green leather jacket. “I was wondering, however . . . . ”

“Yes?” Paul prompted.

“I woke up this morning feeling tired,” Joe said. An anxious frown knotted his brow. “I went to bed early last night, and slept well enough, yet this morning, I wake up feeling more tired than I can remember feeling in my entire life.”

“Ever since you, your pa, and that new guy . . . . ”

“Jonathan.”

“Yes, Jonathan,” Paul repeated the name. “Ever since the three of you found Miss O’Toole, cared for her, arranged and carried out her funeral and burial observances . . . you and your pa BOTH have been running around like chickens with your heads cut off. The Caine boy kicking Stacy in the rib cage didn’t help matters any either. All that, plus the fact that you and Miss O’Toole have been friends for a long time . . . . ” He paused. “Now that the funeral’s over, all the grief, the stress, the weariness is catching up with you.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Joe said slowly.

“Give yourself another day or so, Joe,” the doctor said. “If you’re still feeling tired, come back and see me. I’ll give you a full and complete once over.”

“I will, Doc,” Joe said, feeling a measure of relief.

“I’m going to give you a few extra pills for Stacy,” Paul said. He counted out three and placed them in a glass container.

“Thanks again, Doc,” Joe slipped the container with pills in the inside pocket of his jacket. He paid for the extra medication and stepped out onto the street, nearly colliding into William Caine, Junior. “Excuse me, I . . . . ” he scowled, his words fading into a strained silence. “Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Joe said bitterly, through clenched teeth.

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?” Bill demanded indignantly.

“It’s supposed to mean you had a heck of a nerve showing your face at her funeral,” Joe declared, his mouth and jaw tightening with anger.

“Nothing’s changed since elementary school, has it?” Bill said rancorously. “There you are one of the high and mighty Cartwrights perched upon your golden throne looking down your long nose at everyone else, sitting in judgment.”

“You ran out on her,” Joe charged, his fury rising. “She loved you and YOU ran out on her.”

“I went to Boston to attend Harvard,” Bill said, his own anger rising in tandem with Joe’s. “I couldn’t see her the night before I left, but I sent word that I was leaving. I asked her to meet me at the stage depot the next morning, an hour before the stage left.”

“I can tell you for a fact that Lotus never got your supposed message,” Joe said. It took every ounce of will he possessed to keep from knocking Bill Caine down, and beating his face to a pulp.

Bill Caine had no such reservations. He balled his fist and lashed out striking Joe as hard as he could. The force of his blow sent the youngest Cartwright son off the wood sidewalk into the street. “I won’t tolerate ANYONE calling me a liar, even if he is one of the great and mighty Cartwrights,” he spat.

People out on the street scurried well away, giving Joe Cartwright and Bill Caine Junior wide birth. One lean and lanky young man bolted down the street and around the corner toward the sheriff’s office.

Joe rose to his feet. He stood, wavering, then with a cry of raw fury mixed with agony he charged his opponent. Before Bill could even think of moving or reacting, Joe’s strong, muscular arms were wrapped around his waist in a painful vice-like grip. Bill reeled backwards crashing hard into the nearest wall before collapsing to the sidewalk. Joe, having landed on top of his opponent, was first to recover. Grabbing a fistful of clothing, he roughly hauled Bill Caine to his feet and followed through, his fist connecting hard with the other man’s right cheek. Bill fell into the hitching post on the street. The force of his body broke the cross beam in two. “That was for Lotus AND for what your bully boy little brother did to my sister,” Joe shouted.

“Alright, BOTH of ya, break it up!” It was Sheriff Coffee.

“It was self defense on MY part, Sheriff,” Joe said, glaring at his antagonist.

Bill Caine scrambled to his feet and stepped menacingly toward Joe.

“One more step, Bill Caine, an’ I’m runnin’ you in,” Roy said severely, glaring at both combatants.

Bill exhaled an audible sigh of exasperation, but stayed where he was.

“Now I want the both of you to g’won about your business,” Roy ordered. “If there’s any more trouble outta either one o’ ya, I’m throwing your sorry asses in jail. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Joe said sullenly.

Bill Caine replied with a curt nod.

The sound of gunfire, shattering glass, and riotous shouting immediately caught the attention of the sheriff, the two combatants, and everyone else on the street.

Joe frowned, his altercation with Bill Caine all but forgotten. “That sounds like it’s coming from the Silver Dollar,” he said.

Roy Coffee set off down the street at a dead run. Joe Cartwright and Bill Caine exchanged glances, then took off after the sheriff. Rounding the corner a block later, the three men stared in shocked horror at the scene awaiting them. A half dozen masked men on horses rode up and down in front of the street in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon, taking pot shots at the already shattered windows and any passerby fool hardy enough to come out from under cover. All six of them whooped and hollered uproariously.   
One man chug-a-lugged the remaining whiskey from the bottle in hand and lobbed it through the air in the general direction of the sheriff. He missed by a wide mile, his aim heavily influenced by his obviously intoxicated state. He laughed and reached for his gun.   
Gritting his teeth, Roy drew first, nicking the man’s wrist. The gun dropped out of his hand. The man reeled, thrown off balance in large part due to his inebriated state, then toppled right off the saddle. Roy and Bill moved toward the fallen man, while one of the remaining men on horse back rode through the swinging doors into the saloon. Joe followed.

Inside the man, clad all in black with a red bandanna over the lower portion of his face rode through the saloon using the bottles carefully lined up behind the bar for target practice.

Joe entered behind him, his own gun in hand and ready. “Hold it right there!” he ordered tersely.

The man turned, laughing uproariously, and took aim at Joe’s head.

Joe fired first, branding the man’s right forearm.

The man howled in pain as the fingers of his right hand automatically went limp. His gun easily slipped from his hand and fell onto the floor. At the same time, he dropped the reins he had clasped so tightly less than a moment before and slapped his left hand over the superficial wound left by the bullet from Joe’s gun.

“Now you’re going to do WHAT I say . . . WHEN I tell ya to do it,” Joe stated through clenched teeth, favoring the man still on horseback with a dark, murderous glare. “One wrong move . . . . ” he gently, yet very pointedly caressed the trigger for emphasis. “Now get down off that horse and keep your hands right there in front of you where I can see ‘em.”

The man complied. The instant both feet touched terra firma, he pivoted and slapped the left rear flank of his horse, then bolted for the door. The horse moved forward, coming between Joe and its rider. The man quickly grabbed hold one of the chairs from on top of the table directly before him. The instant the horse was clear, he hurled the chair, aiming for Joe’s head. Gritting his teeth, Joe barely moved in time to avoid being hit by the flying chair. The man, once again seizing advantage of his opponent’s distraction, left, grabbing Joe tightly about the waist. Both men tumbled hard to the floor, with Joe bearing the brunt of the fall.

The man scrambled to his feet immediately, and followed through swinging his foot back with the intention of landing a good swift kick to Joe’s rib cage. Though dazed, Joe rolled, impelled by instinct, avoiding the intended blow. He gritted his teeth and lashed out with his leg, catching the man squarely behind the knee while still off balance. Bellowing in pain and outrage, the man toppled to the floor. Joe rose and immediately hauled the man unceremoniously to his feet, following through with a hard left cross sending his opponent crashing into the bar and down for the count.

The soft, unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked for firing froze Joe in his tracks.

“Don’t you dare move,” a woman growled. “Hands up!”

“Sally?!”

Sally Tyler, standing half way down the stairs, with rifle in hand, lowered her weapon.

“Joe?” she said. “Joe Cartwright, that really you?”

Joe, keeping his hands raised, turned slowly.

“Thank God,” she half sobbed.

A half dozen giant steps later, Joe was at Sally’s side, his arms comfortingly around her. Sally dropped her head down on Joe’s shoulder and cried.

“Joe?” It was Roy Coffee.

“Here, Sheriff,” Joe responded.

“What the hell happened in here?” Roy sputtered, getting a look at the ruined public room. All of the whiskey bottles behind the bar had been shot, as had the mirror. Shards of glass and silver generously littered the floor behind the bar, covered generously by the whiskey and brandy contained in the bottles. The furniture had been strewn about the room. Several chairs had been broken into piles now only good for kindling wood. All that remained of the windows were jagged teeth of glass.

“They . . . they came in and . . . and shot the place up,” Sally sobbed, grasping the rifle in one hand, and clinging to Joe for dear life with the other. “Sam . . . Sam tried to . . . to fend ‘em off . . . one of ‘em . . . oh, Sheriff Coffee . . . one of ‘em . . . one of ‘em shot him . . . in the gut!”

“I’ll fetch Doc Martin,” Joe offered grimly.

Roy nodded curtly. He stepped in and gently took Sally by the elbow, as Joe set off at a dead run to get the doctor. “Where’s Sam now?” the sheriff asked.

“Upstairs,” Sally wept. “This way.”

She led Roy up the steps to the room normally occupied by Laurie Lee Bonner. Sam lay prone on the bed, barely conscious, his bloody shirt at the foot of his bed next to his feet. Though Sally had cleaned and bandaged the wound to the abdomen as best she could, it continued to bleed with alarming profusion.

“It was just him an’ me in here,” Sally resumed her testimony. “Everyone else got out, I’m pretty sure.” She sank wearily onto the bed. “I was in my room, when I heard all the ruckus. When I came out, Sam was at the end of the hall, top of the steps, tryin’ to fend off three of ‘em runnin’ up them steps lickity spit. One of ‘em shot ‘im . . . . ” She began to cry once again. “I . . . I b-barely managed to . . . to drag S-S-Sam in here an’ . . . an’ lock the d-d-door . . . ‘fore them y-yahoos got to the top o’ the s-steps.”

“Sheriff Coffee?” It was Joe Cartwright calling from the public room down stairs.  
Roy patted Sally’s hand, then rose and went to the door. “Up here, Joe,” he yelled back.

“You find Doc Martin?”

“I’m right here, Roy,” the doctor yelled back.

Within less than a minute, Joe Cartwright and Doctor Paul Martin entered the room with Bill Caine following at their heels. Sally, wiping her eyes against the palm of her hand, rose and moved aside, allowing the doctor access. Paul crossed the room to the bed and sat down in the place vacated by Sally.

“I’m going to need hot water and plenty of it,” the doctor said tersely, “and clean linens.”

“S-Sheriff, is . . . is everything ok down stairs?” Sally ventured hesitantly.

“I got two o’ them yahoos behind bars,” the sheriff replied. “The others rode off.”

“Then, I’ll g-go start boilin’ water,” she said.

“I’ll come with you,” Bill Caine offered.

Sally nodded and led the way out of the room.

“I’ll see what I can scare up in the way of linens,” Joe said. He left the room, now occupied by Sam, and bounded across the hall to the room directly opposite. He yanked sheets from the mattress and unceremoniously dumped pillows from pillowcases. Rolling the bed linens together in a single mass, Joe tucked it under his arm and ran to the next room.

Bill Caine returned a short while later, carrying an enormous bowl of boiling hot water.

“Set it on the night stand over here, would you?” Paul said, inclining his head toward the piece of furniture in question.

“Sally’s got plenty more on the stove downstairs,” Bill said, as he carefully set the bowl down on the night stand at the doctor’s right hand.

Doctor Martin quickly removed his surgical tools from his black bag and placed them into the bowl of hot water, carefully leaning them against the sides of the bowl.

“I’ve got plenty here that can be used as bandages,” Joe announced tersely, upon his return with a generous armload of linens. He piled them on a nearby dresser, then seized the sheet nearest the top of the pile and began tearing it into long narrow strips.

Roy Coffee quietly walked over and gave Joe a hand tearing the enormous pile of linens into much needed bandages.

“I . . . know every blessed bottle o’ whiskey was shot to pieces down in the bar room . . . . ”  
“Sam probably has a few spare bottles in his store room, Doc,” Joe said. “I’ll g’won down . . . see what I can scare up.”

“No, Joe, you keep doing what you’re doing,” Bill said quickly. “I’ll fetch the whiskey.”

He turned and bolted from the room, running as fast as he could.

“Roy . . . . ”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“Can you assist?”

“Sure thing, Doc.”

The doctor removed his scissors from the bowl of still steaming hot water, and gently shook them to remove some of the excess water. Roy took one of the long strips of material, one that a few moments before was a lace trimmed linen pillowcase belonging to Laurie Lee Bonner’s linen pillowcase, and ripped it in half. Crossing the room from the dresser, where Joe Cartwright stood ripping sheets into bandages, Roy deftly ripped the pieces in hand into smaller pieces, roughly the size of handkerchiefs. Without a word, he thrust one of the small pieces of material almost directly into the doctor’s line of vision.

“Thanks, Roy,” Paul murmured, taking the proffered strip of linen from the sheriff. He quickly dried off the scissors and cut through the bandages, generously covered by brownish, port wine stains.

The worst of the bleeding appeared to have stopped. Paul Martin silently offered a quick prayer of thanks, while gingerly easing off the dried, blood stained bandages, that Sally Tyler had applied earlier. “He’s taken two bullets,” he said grimly, after a quick examination. “Roy, would you hand me my probe? It’s the one with the round ivory handle.”

“Shouldn’t ya wait ‘til Bill gits back wi’ that whiskey?” Roy asked, as he fished the requested instrument from the bowl.

Paul tersely shook his head and held out his hand. “Sam’s barely conscious now. He’d probably choke on the whiskey if I tried to give him some.”

Roy quickly wiped the probe bone dry, then keeping the business end of the piece wrapped in the material he passed it over to the doctor.

With mouth set in a grim, determined line, Paul Martin, with a deft sureness borne of many years’ experience, inserted the probe into what appeared to be the more shallow of the two wounds. He found the bullet almost immediately. “Forceps, Roy,” he snapped, “the small ones . . . they look like a giant pair of tweezers.”

Roy quickly dried the forceps and slapped them into Paul Martin’s outstretched hand.

“Sam, you’re a lucky man,” Paul mused silently as he extracted the bullet from the bartender’s inert body. “Another quarter of an inch . . . there wouldn’t be a damn thing my poor skill could do for ya.”

Roy, meanwhile, grabbed the fine porcelain ring dish sitting on the night table beside the bed and emptied the two rings it contained onto the table. Again, without a word, he held the dainty piece, edged with tiny bas relief white and pink roses out to the doctor.

Paul silently and curtly nodded his thanks and dropped the grisly, blood stained bullet into the small dish.

Joe, seeing the potential need for bandages, silently grabbed a handful of the strips already torn and handed them to Roy.

Roy Coffee, in turn, passed the strips of material on to Doctor Martin, one piece at a time. Paul bound the wound tight, hoping against hope to bring a quick end to blood once more oozing from the hold left by the bullet. That done, he turned his attention to the second wound in the abdomen.

“Roy, I need you to clean my probe.”

“Gotcha, Doc.”

Roy dipped one of the small pieces of cloth into the still steaming bowl of water, then used it to wipe the blood from the probe. After cleaning off the piece, he placed it back into the water briefly, then wiped it dry.

Doctor Martin began the task of probing for the bullet in the second wound.

Bill Caine entered the room, with two unopened whiskey bottles in hand. Sally Tyler followed close at his heels. “Found these in the store room downstairs,” the former said quietly. “There’s plenty more there if its needed.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Roy said softly, as he turned to face the younger man. “I’ll take ‘em.”

Bill silently passed the whiskey bottles over to Roy, who, in turn placed them on the night table beside the bed.

“Sheriff Coffee? H-how’s . . . how’s Sam doin’?” Sally ventured timidly.

Roy noted her pale, drawn face, and eyes round with shock, and apprehension. “So far, so good, Miss Tyler,” he said, offering her a small, encouraging smile. “Doc’s already removed the first bullet.”

Sally Tyler stood next to Bill Caine, with balled fists pressed close to her mouth, unmoving, every muscle in her body rigid. Paul Martin, all intense focused concentration on the grim task at hand, continued probing for that second bullet. Roy Coffee stood next to the doctor, his sharp eyes fixed on him, ready to anticipate whatever he might need next. A strained silence fell with the gentle relentlessness of a descending fog, upon the disparate group of individuals assembled, broken occasionally by the soft sounds of rent fabric, in the able, strong hands of Joe Cartwright.

An eternity passed with dreadful slowness, followed seemingly by another, and yet another.

“Dammit!” Paul swore under his breath, giving vent to his own mounting frustration and dread. “Where in the hell is it?”

The doctor’s words, though spoken softly, still broke the heavy silence like thunderclap passing directly overhead. Sally, Bill, and even Joe started violently.

“If I can’t find that second bullet . . . ah! Got it!” The doctor deftly removed the second bullet and tossed the bloody piece of metal onto the night table beside the bowl. “Joe, if you’d be so kind as to start handing me bandages.”

Joe grabbed two hands full of the strips he had already torn and circled around to the other side of the bed.

“Whiskey!”

“Comin’ up, Doc!” Roy grabbed one of the whiskey bottles from the night stand, opened it, then handed it to the doctor in a single fluid move.

Paul doused both wounds with whiskey, then set himself to the task of packing the second wound in an effort to staunch the alarming flow of blood. Joe’s initial supply of linen and cotton bandages quickly dwindled. Sally immediately ran over to the dresser and grabbed most of the remaining strips of material and carried them over to Joe. Bill quietly set himself to the task of converting the remaining bed linens into bandages. At length, the bleeding began to taper off. Exhaling a long, weary sigh of relief, Paul tightly bound up the wounds.

“Doc, I got more water boilin’ on the stove.” It was Sally. “Tom’s downstairs watchin’ it.” She looked down at the injured bartender, biting her lower lip. “Doc, is Sam . . . is he gonna be ok?”

“I’ve got the slugs out,” Paul replied, as he rose stiffly from the bed, “and I think the worst of the bleeding has stopped. The rest is up to him now.” He collapsed heavily into the nearest chair.

“Doc?”

“Yes, Miss Tyler?”

“If ‘n ya don’t need me, I’d kind like t’ go an’ lie down a minute . . . . ”

“That would be an excellent idea, Miss Tyler,” Paul said. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Sally nodded and left the room.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“Would you mind going back to my house and fetching my wife? I’m going to need her help, but I can’t leave Sam right now.

“Sure, Doc,” Joe agreed, “I’ll be . . . . ”

His words were rudely cut off by a terrified, anguished scream. Joe and Roy bolted from the room and ran down the hall toward Sally Tyler’s room. They found her sobbing in the center of the room. Pictures had been removed from the walls, and thrown on the floor, their backs slit. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and smashed, their contents strewn all over the room. All of the bed linens had been pulled off the bed, along with the mattress and pillows. The mattress lay half on the bed frame and half on the floor. Its cover had been slashed open and it’s stuffing pulled out and discarded all over the room. The goose down pillows, too, had also been cut open. Feathers littered the room.

“What the---?!” the sheriff stammered, gazing at the tattered, broken remains of Sally’s possessions strewn all over the room.

“Whoever did it was looking for something,” Joe said grimly.

“You sure, Joe?” Roy asked.

“None of the other rooms were touched, Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said. “I saw them when I went in search of sheets to use as bandages.”

“H-he’s right,” Sally sobbed, turning to face the two men. She clutched her jewelry box tightly in both hands. The lid was up, revealing it’s entire contents. “If those men’d come here to rob the place . . . they’d have taken my jewelry. I got some valuable pieces here . . . . ”

Roy frowned. “What could they have possibly been after?”

The answer hit Joe like a hard sucker punch to the solar plexus. “Her diary!”

“What?” Sally looked over at Joe askance.

“Sally, there was a leather bound book among the things you gave Sheriff Coffee to give Timmy,” Joe hurriedly explained. “That book was Lotus O’Toole’s diary.”

“You think Miss O’Toole named her murderer?” Roy asked.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “I haven’t gotten that far in translating it.”

“Translatin’ it?” Roy echoed staring over at Joe incredulously. “Did she write it in Chinese?”

Joe shook his head. “She wrote in a language she and I made up when we were kids,” he explained. “It was a secret language. I’m the only person left alive now who knows it.”  
Sally blanched. “Oh dear God . . . . ” she murmured. “Those men . . . Joe, if those men were here lookin’ f’r Lotus’ diary, they musta been sent by the man whut killed ‘er!” Her hazel eyes were round with shocked horror. “That means . . . that m-means . . . she must’ve said who killed her!”

“Or the man who murdered her is AFRAID she named him in her diary.” Joe turned his attention to Roy Coffee, his heart thudding hard against his throat. “Sheriff,” he begged, “would you mind asking Bill Caine to fetch the doc’s wife? I’ve gotta get back to the Ponderosa . . . gotta warn Pa . . . . ” He turned and bolted back down the hall, before Roy could reply.

 

 

End of Part 2.

 

***

 

1\. I Corinthians 13: 1 - 8


	3. Chapter 3

“Mister Cartwright, guess what?”

Ben smiled. “What, Timmy?”

“Mister Hoss and I have a surprise,” Timmy chattered happily, his good spirits and childish exuberance restored.

“What kind of surprise?” Ben asked.

“A nice one, Mister Cartwright, a real nice one.”

Timmy and Ben were downstairs in the living room area, seated together on the settee, awaiting the arrival of Miss Tess.

“Did I hear someone mention a surprise?”

Ben and Timmy turned toward the stairs and saw Stacy standing at the top landing, with three composition books in hand. Timmy immediately jumped out of his seat and ran to the stairs to greet Stacy. “Mister Hoss and I have a surprise, Stacy,” he said, as she stiffly descended the last two steps. “A big surprise!”

“Also a nice surprise,” Ben added from his place on the sofa. “How are you feeling?”

“It still hurts, Pa, but I thought I’d better turn in my homework,” Stacy said. She turned her attention to Timmy, skipping along beside her. “When do we get to see this surprise, Timmy?”

“It’s not something to see, Stacy, it’s something Mister Hoss and I have to tell you,” Timmy said eagerly. “We’re telling everybody at supper tonight.”

“Can you give me a hint?” Stacy asked.

Timmy resolutely shook his head.

“Pa, do YOU know . . . . ”

“I don’t know a thing,” Ben said quickly. True he had his suspicions, but he couldn’t rightly say he knew for absolute certain. “If I DID know, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

There was a knock at the front door.

“Miss Tess!” Timmy cried with eager delight. He bolted from Stacy’s side and ran toward the front door.

Stacy and Ben, meanwhile, made their way out to the dining room table and sat down. The latter held the chair Hoss normally occupied at the table for his daughter, then seated himself in the vacant one beside her. Timmy appeared a few moments later, leading Tess by the hand.

“Good afternoon, Stacy . . . and you, too, Ben,” Tess greeted father and daughter with a warm smile, as she took her place at the head of the table. Timmy climbed into the chair across the table from Stacy. “Ben, will you be joining us for our lessons?”

“I’d like to, if it’s alright with you, Miss Tess,” Ben replied, feeling oddly like a pupil himself once again.

“Its perfectly alright with me,” Tess readily gave consent. “I’ve read and graded both of your essays, and both deserve an A plus.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out both essays and returned them to the two students flanking her on either side at the table. “Timmy, you really love helping Mister Hoss with the horses, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am, I do,” Timmy replied, “ ‘course I’ll be helping Mister Hoss AND Stacy, as soon as she gets better.”

“Stacy,” Tess turned her attention to her older pupil, “this account of The Wedding of the Century is priceless. It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard.”

“Thank you, Miss Tess,” Stacy said, accepting her essay.

“The only thing wrong with it was, it had to end,” Tess said smiling. She refrained from adding that she especially enjoyed reading the part about Reverend Hildebrandt fleeing from the burning church building with the seat of his britches on fire.

The sound of horse hooves in the yard, drew everyone’s attention from the lessons at hand.

“Cochise,” Stacy said. “Joe’s back.”

“I asked you both for another one hundred word essay on some ONE you most admire,” Tess continued.

“Here’s mine, Miss Tess, but please promise you won’t read it ‘til after supper,” Timmy said. “It’s part of the surprise that Mister Hoss and I have.”

“You ARE staying for supper, aren’t you, Miss Tess?” Ben asked.

“Yes, I am,” she replied. “I wouldn’t miss the surprise Mister Hoss and Timmy have in store for all the world.”

Ben frowned, as Tess accepted the essays, then turned to the subject of math. He heard Cochise whinny again. Why hadn’t Joe taken him into the barn? “Miss Tess . . . Stacy . . . Timmy, would you please excuse me for a moment?” he said rising. “I’d like to check on Joe . . . . ”

“Go ahead, Ben,” Tess said.

 

Ben left the table and walked over to the door. Upon opening it, he saw Cochise wandering around the yard without, freely grazing. There was no sign of Joe at all. He walked out, took Cochise’s reigns in hand, and led the paint into the barn.

“JOSEPH?!” he yelled.

“Sorry, he’s not here, Mister Cartwright,” it was Jonathan. “Can I help you?”

A bewildered frown creased his brow. “You . . . you haven’t seen Joe?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” Jonathan replied.

“I found Cochise wandering out in front of the house,” Ben explained, “but no sign of Joe there, either.”

“Is it possible for him to have slipped into the house without you seeing him?” Jonathan knew that not to be the case, even as he spoke the words to the question. His eyes fell on a rolled piece of paper tied with a leather thong, attached securely to the saddle horn. “ . . . uh, Mister Cartwright?” He untied the thong from the saddle and held the rolled paper out to the Cartwright family patriarch.

Ben snatched the paper from Jonathan’s outstretched hand, slipped it out of the leather thong and unrolled it. Jonathan looked on anxiously as Ben read. A moment later he looked up, his face ashen. “Joe’s been kidnapped,” it took every ounce of will he possessed to speak those words. “They’re demanding Lotus O’Toole’s diary as ransom, and have instructed me to bring it tonight to that copse of trees along the brook running through that meadow where we found Miss O’Toole. They also tell me to come alone.”

“You can’t go alone, Mister Cartwright,” Jonathan said earnestly. “They’ll take the diary . . . then kill you AND Joe.”

“Mister Smith, I have no choice,” Ben said in a tone that brooked no argument and signaled unequivocally the end of any and all discussion of the matter. “You’ll say nothing to the rest of my family.”

 

Through out supper, Ben found himself staring off into space, completely oblivious to everyone and everything around him. Hop Sing served the meal, a special one of fried chicken, even if the day wasn’t Sunday, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots, spinach, and light fluffy biscuits. The Ponderosa chef had even baked a big cherry pie, Timmy’s absolute favorite, for the occasion. Stacy tried to participate in Hoss’ and Timmy’s joyful excitement, but her father’s somber mood stirred a heavy anxiety and deep foreboding.

“Hop Sing, as usual, you’ve outdone yourself,” Tess complimented the chef with a big, satisfied smile.

“Thank you, Miss Tess, thank you very much,” Hop Sing graciously accepted the compliment. “Hop Sing hope Miss Tess save room for cherry pie.”

“Cherry pie? My favorite!” Tess exclaimed. “I ALWAYS have room for cherry pie!”

Hop Sing rose, intending to clear away the dishes and remains of a very fine meal.

Hoss rose and held up his hand. “Hop Sing, can you hold off on that?”

“But, Hop Sing must clear table for cherry pie,” he protested.

“You will in just a minute,” Hoss said. “Right now, Timmy an’ I have somethin’ to tell you.”

“Mister Hoss is going to be my pa,” the boy eagerly spilled the beans. “He’s going to . . . to . . . I forgot the word again.”

“Adopt, Timmy,” Hoss supplied the word with a smile.

“Mister Hoss is going to adopt me and be my pa,” the boy said.

“Congratulations. Mister Hoss make fine papa,” Hop Sing declared, grinning from ear to ear, “and young Timmy make fine son.”

“That’s wonderful news!” Tess declared with a big smile. “Congratulations to both of you!”

“I should’ve guessed,” Stacy said, smiling in spite of her growing anxiety. “Do I get to teach my new nephew how to ride this summer, Big Brother?”

“You get to HELP teach ‘im to ride, Little Sister,” Hoss said. “Seein’ as how I’m gonna be his pa, it’s MY job to teach him.”

Ben quietly rose and left the table. Stacy was the only one to see him go. She hastily excused herself, and followed her father over to the area he used as a study.

“Pa?”

Ben froze.

“Pa, what’s wrong?” Stacy asked, taking great care to keep her voice down.

Ben sighed. Try as he might, he could never quite put anything past this fey child of his, to borrow her mother’s words. “Stacy, Joe’s in trouble,” he said, extracting Lotus O’Toole’s diary from the top left hand drawer of his desk. “I have to go to him.”

“Shouldn’t you take Hoss?” she asked.

Ben shook his head. “If I take Hoss, I’d ruin Timmy’s surprise party,” he said, striving desperately to keep things light. The terrible anxiety he saw in her face told him at once that he had failed miserably. “Stacy, everything’s going to be alright,” he said quietly.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Ben walked over to the front door, and retrieved his tan leather jacket from the hook. He slipped it on, tucking the diary in the large pocket on his left. Stacy, with heart in mouth, followed him to the front door.

“Pa . . . ”

Ben opened his mouth to reprimand her until he noticed the tears in her eyes. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, what’s this?” he said gently, passing her a handkerchief.

“Pa, please promise me you’ll be very, very careful,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “Please?”

“I promise,” Ben said. He turned to leave, then on impulse turned back and gave her a gentle hug, remembering her fractured ribs. “Joe and I will be back in a little while.”

Stacy remained at the door, waiting until the sound of Big Buck’s hooves had faded away to silence. She turned, casting a quick furtive glance over her shoulder. Hoss, Timmy, Miss Tess, and Hop Sing were still seated at the table, enjoying their cherry pie and delighting in the good news announced by Timmy and Hoss, complacently unaware that she had not yet returned to the table. Satisfied, she stepped outside, closing the door as quietly as possible behind her.

 

“Please,” Joe Cartwright begged for the thousandth time. “Kill ME if you have to, but leave my pa and the rest of my family out of this.”

“I must have that diary,” the man standing over him said in a quiet voice that sent chills down Joe’s spine.

Joe was lying on the carpeted floor of someone’s posh office, an accountant or perhaps a lawyer, given the polished dark wood paneling, the massive, heavy desk and chairs, the barristers bookcases crammed full with books, and the large oil painting depicting a fierce battle between cavalry men and Indians covering most of the visible wall behind the desk. A single oil lamp burned on the desk behind him, casting a dim flickering circle of light around him. He could see the man’s feet and legs, shod in a pair of black leather shoes polished to a high glossy shine and covered by a pair of slacks made of black flannel, the front creases pressed almost sharp enough to slice bread. The remainder of the man’s person was well hidden in the deep shadows above the rim of lamp light. Joe himself was bound hand and foot, his hair mussed, shirt torn, and face streaked with dirt.

“I keep telling you . . . that diary’s written in a secret language we made up when we were kids,” Joe said tersely. “I’m the only one alive who can translate it!”

“I can’t take that chance,” the man said. “Everything I’ve ever wanted lies just within my grasp. The contents of that diary could ruin everything. I WILL NOT allow the scribblings of a . . . a half breed little jezebel to jeopardize everything I’ve worked so long and so hard for.”

Joe bristled against the cruel words used in reference to Lotus O’Toole. He gritted his teeth, as he fought hard to contain his escalating anger. _“Sorry, Lotus,”_ he silently, contritely apologized to his oldest friend. _“You’re dead, and I more than likely will be, too. I’ve got to do what I can now to save my father, brother, and sister.”_

Somewhere in the darkness, high up to Joe’s right, a clock struck the hour of eight o’clock.

“It’s time,” the man said softly. He turned to leave the room.

“Please, whoever you are, I beg of you . . . don’t meet my father tonight,” Joe implored passionately. “Let him keep the diary! Neither he, nor anyone else can possibly read it . . . I swear as God is my witness--- ”

“I told you before, I simply can’t take that chance,” the man said.

“All you have to do is kill me right now!” Joe begged. “Do that, and the secrets contained in that diary will remain secrets. Please . . . . ”

The man pointedly turned a deaf ear to Joe’s pleading and disappeared in the darkness. A moment later, Joe saw a rectangle of light illuminate the man’s body in silhouette when he opened the door. “Mark?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Keep a close watch on him,” the man said. “If possible I want to keep him alive until that woman’s diary is safe in hand. However, if he should try to escape, do what you must.”

“Yes, Sir.”

With that the man stepped into the rectangle of light and closed the door with a quiet click that sounded like the closing of a casket for the last time. Joe leaned heavily against the desk at his back, overwhelmed by desolation and despair. He drew a deep ragged breath, and gave in to the tears he had valiantly held in check for so long.

 

Stacy, with heart in mouth, stubbornly ignoring the escalating pain in her torso, had already placed the bridle and blanket on her horse, Blaze Face. Taking the reins in hand, she softly cautioned Blaze Face to remain silent, then led him from the stall to the rack holding her saddle. She paused briefly, to catch her breath. Her agony seemed to burn within, without let up, waxing hotter and hotter with each breath she took. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she turned and placed her hands on the saddle.

“Stacy, I wouldn’t if I were you.” It was Jonathan.

“W-would you . . . would you . . . mind saddling my horse?” she asked in as steady a voice as she could muster. “Please?”

“What about your promise to Doc Martin?”

“What promise?” Stacy demanded, exasperation getting the better of her.

“That you wouldn’t set foot outside the house if he gave the ok to attend Miss O’Toole’s funeral,” Jonathan said.

“Jonathan, my pa and brother are in danger!”

“I know.”

“Then help me saddle my horse, please.”

“No.”

“WHAT?” Stacy shrieked in outrage and frustration.

“Stacy, I promise you . . . your father and brother will survive what’s soon to come,” Jonathan said earnestly. “Help from an unexpected source is coming to their aid even as I speak right now. Please, trust me!”

“How do you know?”

A tiny prickle of light appeared in the middle of Jonathan’s chest. It expanded, across his chest, to his face, and down his arms and legs. His slacks and flannel shirt faded, as the light bathing and surrounding Jonathan became his clothing. “I am an angel sent by God to help put right a terrible wrong.”

Stacy’s mouth dropped open.

“Your father and Joe have a very crucial part to play in setting things right,” Jonathan explained. “You have to let what’s been set in motion play itself out.”

“What about Miss O’Toole?” Stacy rounded on Jonathan furiously. “Did SHE have a crucial part to play in setting whatever wrong’s been committed back to right?”

“Her death has played a significant role in doing so . . . . ”

“If you think for one minute I’m gonna stand by idly while the deaths of my father and brother play crucial roles in this . . . this game of yours, you’d better think again,” Stacy said. The white hot fury consuming her had all but obliterated the pain from her fractured ribs.

“Stacy, your father and brother will be all right.”

“The way Miss O’Toole was all right?” Stacy countered. With a burst of superhuman strength and endurance born in the growing flames of her rage and fear, she seized her saddle in both hands and placed it on Blaze Face’s back with almost ridiculous ease.

“Stacy, if you go after your father now, you’ll endanger yourself and all but guarantee his AND your brother’s deaths,” Jonathan said tersely.

Stacy froze.

“I promise you, your father and brother WILL survive this,” Jonathan reiterated. A desperate edge crept into his voice. “But YOU have to stay out of it.”

“Jonathan,” she wailed, “I can’t just sit by and do nothing!”

“I didn’t say you were going to just sit by and do nothing,” Jonathan said quietly. “You and I have a job to do, Stacy. It’s a very hard job, but all things considered, it’s the most important.”

“What is it?” Stacy asked.

“You and I are going to pray.”

 

Bill Caine returned to the International Hotel during the early evening hours, after spending most of the day fetching and carrying at the ruined Silver Dollar Saloon. Sam, the bartender, still hovered somewhere between life and death. Doctor Martin and his wife were there and would remain through the night. Sally Tyler had marshaled together the dozen employees who had ventured back after this afternoon’s vandalism, and put them to work boiling water and cleaning up. Sheriff Coffee had also elected to remain through out the night. Clem, the deputy was also there, along with a dozen armed men sworn in as deputies. With everything so well in hand, he had begun to feel as useful as the fifth wheel on a wagon.

He also felt at loose ends with himself. The life he had planned to share with Lotus O’Toole was as dead as her lifeless body now resting beneath the earth in the Virginia City Cemetery. Her death had left in its wake an empty deep black chasm. He had no idea in the world how he was going to fill it.

Bill walked over to the desk clerk, upon reaching the hotel. “Any messages?”

“No messages, but there is a young man waiting to see you . . . . ” the clerk began.

“Bill!”

He turned and saw his younger brother Abel, his eyes round with fear and face swollen from tears recently shed.

“Bill, thank God! I thought you’d never get here!” the words tumbled from the boy’s lips one after the other.

“Abel, what’s wrong?” Bill asked.

“It’s Father,” Abel half sobbed. “I know he can be kinda scary sometimes, but tonight . . . . Bill, tonight I’m really afraid. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“What happened?”

“He’s got Joe Cartwright at the house,” Abel said. “I saw Mister Crawford an’ a couple o’ other guys bring ‘im in through the back door. Father keeps goin’ on an’ on about a diary that the Cartwrights have.”

“What diary?”

“It belonged to that saloon gal you were so in love with,” Abel replied.

“Where’s Father now?” Bill asked.

“He was supposed to leave at eight to meet Mister Cartwright to get that diary,” Abel said.

Bill deftly fished his pocket watch from his pocket and snapped up the cover. The time was five minutes after eight.

“Bill, Father’s gonna kill ‘em.”

Bill glanced over at his younger brother sharply. “Kill who, Abel?”

“The Cartwrights,” Abel said.

“Come on, Abel, we’re going to get Sheriff Coffee.

“I’m kinda tired, Bill,” Abel said. “Can I wait here? No one saw me leave the house, I should be safe.”

“Don’t count on it, Abel,” Bill said grimly. “The safest place you can be right now is with me. Let’s go.”

 

The Caine brothers went immediately to the Silver Dollar Saloon. As they entered the public room, now cleared of the broken furniture and swept free of the glass from the broken windows, bottles, and glasses, Bill saw Sally Tyler walking toward the bar, with broom and dust pan in hand.

“Sally!”

She started. “Oh, Bill!” she exclaimed. “You really gave me a turn, there!”

“Sally, can you tell me where to find Sheriff Coffee? It’s urgent!” Bill said tersely.

“I left him upstairs with the doc an’ Sam,” she replied.

“Thank you,” Bill crossed the public room in three easy giant strides and bounded up the stairs, two and three at a time. Abel followed close at his heels.

“Sheriff Coffee,” Bill said, bursting into the room occupied by Sam, the sheriff and the Martins. “You’ve got to help us. Ben and Joe Cartwright’s lives depend on it.”

“What’s up, Bill?” Roy asked.

Bill quickly told the sheriff everything Abel had just told him.

“Doc,” Roy said, rising.

“I heard,” Paul said grimly. “Given the circumstances, we should be alright here. You g’won after Ben and Joe.”

Roy Coffee gathered together ten of the men standing guard at the Silver Dollars and rode with them toward the place where Ben was to meet with the man responsible for kidnapping Joe. He dispatched Clem and one of the two remaining newly appointed deputies to go with the Caine Brothers back to their father’s house to rescue Joe Cartwright.

“I know a secret way in,” Abel said they approached the house. “I used it to get out tonight.” Keeping well within the deep shadows he led his brother and the two deputies along the eastern side of the house and around back. They bent over to sneak past the kitchen windows, where the light of several lamps burned brightly. They came at last to a dark window. “This window leads to Father’s library,” Abel whispered. “It’s right next to his office, where they have Joe Cartwright.”

Clem opened the window and noiselessly climbed in first, rifle in hand and ready. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear, he returned to the window and nodded. Abel Caine climbed through the window next, followed by his older brother. The other deputy brought up the rear. After allowing a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, Abel led them across the room to the pocket doors leading to the rest of the house.

Clem parted the library doors slightly and peered into the alcove beyond. He saw no one. He noiselessly increased the space between the doors, every muscle in his body tense and alert. He heard no voices, and saw no one. “Abel, which way to the study?” he whispered.  
“That door, over there,” Abel whispered back, pointing to the fast closed set of pocket doors facing the library.

“I want all of you to wait here,” Clem instructed the others. “I’ll go over, make sure everything’s secure, then I’ll signal the rest of you.”

The other three nodded grimly.

Clem peered out into the alcove again, making sure the coast was clear. Seeing no one, he made his way with surprising ease and stealth, given a man of his bulk. When he came to the closed pocket doors leading to the study, he flattened himself against then, his ears straining to catch the sound of movement within. He heard nothing. Gritting his teeth, with every muscle in his body tensed, he slowly, noiselessly slid pulled back one of the doors.

Clem’s sharp ears picked up the almost inaudible sound of the hammer on a pistol being drawn back. He dived into the room as the individual within fired two shots. With heart in mouth, Clem quickly raised his rifle and fired into the darkness where he had seen the two rapid flashes of light caused by the igniting gunpowder launching deadly bullets forward. His aim proved true. In the darkness he heard a strangled groan, followed next by the sound of a gun striking the floor. The ominous thud of an inert body collapsing came last, followed by complete and utter silence.

“W-who’s there?”

“Joe? It’s me, Clem. You just sit tight a minute.” Two long giants strides brought him to the door, where he quickly motioned for the other deputy and the Caine Brothers to come.

“Clem, we’ve gotta get to Pa,” Joe said tersely, as Bill Caine knelt down to untie the robes binding his wrists. “He’s supposed to meet ‘em at the meadow between here and the Ponderosa. They’re gonna KILL him.”

“Sheriff Coffee’s on his way there now with some men,” Clem said tersely. “We’ll follow, but we need to move.” He drew a pocket knife from his jacket and sliced through the ropes around Joe’s ankles. He took Joe’s left arm, and Bill Caine took his right. Together, they dragged Joe to his feet.

“This way,” Abel whispered, running toward the back of the room. He seized the thick velvet curtains in both hands and pulled them down, rods and all, revealing French doors that opened out onto a patio beyond. “This’ll take us to the stables out back.”

 

The man, clad entirely in black, noiselessly dismounted. He took the reins of his horse and strode resolutely into the copse of trees up ahead, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain before him. He saw no horse tethered, no sign at all of anyone, save himself. Frowning, he reached into the pocket of his vest and drew out his pocket watch. The time was nearly quarter past the hour.

“Ben Cartwright’s late,” he muttered angrily under his breath. Seized by a pang of momentary distress, his hand involuntarily moved to touch his holstered gun. “On second thought, it may best serve my purpose to have arrived first,” he mused, his distress subsiding. He could tether his horse around the other side of the trees, the side facing away from the road, hide himself, and wait. “When Ben Cartwright comes, I can just kill him and take the diary from his body.”

Suppose Ben Cartwright didn’t bring the diary? He froze, seized with a paralyzing panic that chilled the blood in his veins. The elder Cartwright was a lot of things, but stupid did not number among them. He wouldn’t put it past him to hide the diary somewhere, known only to himself, to buy time and perhaps a measure of bargaining power. That was certainly a strategy he himself would employ.

 _“Ben Cartwright loves his sons and daughter above all else,”_ a saner, more logical voice within asserted itself. _“He would NEVER do anything to endanger them. He knows his youngest son’s life is at stake. He WILL have the diary.”_

The man exhaled a sigh of relief, his entire body relaxing. He led his horse around to that portion of trees hidden from the road and tethered the animal there well out of sight. A predatory smile spread slowly across his face. Ben Cartwright would have that diary. He knew that now, knew it beyond any shadow of doubt whatsoever. He would hide himself and wait. When Ben Cartwright came, he would shoot and kill him before he ever knew what had hit him.

Stepping into the ragged circle of trees, he froze, every muscle in his body tensed. Someone WAS here. He could feel it. “Cartwright?” he called out into the darkness.  
Silence, save for a gentle breeze stirring the tree branches. Outside the circle of trees he heard his own horse nicker. Forcing his body to relax, he glanced about for a place to hide. Try as he might, however, he simply couldn’t shake feeling of another present, lurking somewhere in the darkness. His horse nickered again, followed by the sound of a second horse. He froze. “Cartwright? Where are you? Show yourself!”

A strong, well muscled arm seized his neck in a near strangling vice like grip, and he felt a thin barrel of steel press up hard against his back. “I’m right here,” a tight, angry baritone voice whispered tersely in his ear. “You’re going to take me to my son, and he’d better be alive, well, and in one piece. If he’s not . . . if I find so much as a scratch on him, I’ll kill you.”

“Go ahead, Mister Cartwright,” the man said complacently. “Go ahead and kill me. You don’t see your son until I have that diary safe in hand.”

“I’ve never been one to pry into another person’s diary or journal,” Ben said slowly.   
“Everyone needs a private place where he or she can record thoughts, musings even dreams. But you’re so desperate to get your hands on Miss O’Toole’s diary, I can’t help but wonder what’s in it.”

The man in Ben Cartwright’s grasp chuckled sardonically. “Where ever do you get the idea I’m desperate to get hold of it?”

Though the man succeeded in keeping a light, sarcastic edge to his tone of voice, Ben could feel his body tensing. “You’ve gone through a lot of trouble to get your hands on it,” he said in an ice cold voice. “That has me VERY interested in what’s there. I’ll bet Sheriff Coffee’d be interested in what’s written down in that diary, too.”

Ben Cartwright toyed with him. He knew full well the damning information those pages held, how could he NOT? “By all means, let’s go see the sheriff,” the man said slowly, thoughtfully. “However, that will take time, Mister Cartwright, time your son doesn’t have.”

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve left instructions for my men to kill your son if I don’t return within the next hour.”

“You . . . KILLED . . . Miss O’Toole, didn’t you!” Ben said, the horror and cold fury plainly evident in his voice. He knew that as sure as he knew the sun was going to rise tomorrow morning.

“If you truly believe that, then you should know I’m quite capable of killing your son the same way. Slowly,” the man said in a calm, carefully measured tone. “VERY slowly, to prolong each. exquisite. moment. of agony.” He could feel the shudder that passed through Ben Cartwright’s massive frame.

“Why?” Ben demanded, the anger and revulsion clearly evident in his voice.

“Why what?”

“Why did you kill her?”

“Surely you don’t expect me to confess,” the man said in a faintly condescending tone. He sighed. “In any case, it’s nothing less than she deserved.”

“No one deserves to be murdered, no one!” Ben stated passionately. “Especially in the way in which Miss O’Toole was murdered.”

“The witch stood in my way, Mister Cartwright,” the man said.

“How?” Ben demanded. “All she wanted . . . all she EVER wanted . . . was to live peacefully, and to raise her boy. How could she have possibly stood in YOUR way, or anyone else’s, for that matter?”

“She and her boy both, by their very existence, threatened to destroy everything I’ve ever done, all I’ve worked so hard to achieve,” the man said.

“Timmy, too?!” Ben shuddered at the thought of that child, soon, maybe to be his grandchild, meeting the same gruesome fate as his mother. What kind of monster did he hold in prisoner in his grasp? “That boy is only six years old! How could he possibly threaten you?”

“That gold digging trollop enticed my son,” the man said, his voice taut with a deep seated anger and bitter hatred the like of which Ben had never heard before in his life. “She convinced my foolish first born that he’d fallen in love with her. The boy actually wanted to marry her. Can you believe that?”

“Yes, I CAN believe that,” Ben said. “Miss O’Toole was a loving, kind, decent, and generous woman.”

“Mister Cartwright, you are either incredibly naive or incredibly stupid,” the man chuckled sardonically. “She was a gold digger, like all the other women at the Silver Dollar and any other saloon, for that matter, always on the prowl for a rich man. Fortunately for my boy, I saw right through her little schemes, and put a stop to this wedding business by sending him back east to attend university.” The man sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t act fact enough, I’m afraid,” he continued. “She STILL managed to get herself pregnant with his child so she could blackmail him AND blackmail ME for the rest of our lives.”

The revelation sent Ben’s senses reeling. “You’re WRONG!” he vehemently denied the man’s outrageous accusations. “Miss O’Toole never told ANYONE who the father of her son was. Never!”

“ . . . and I’ve seen to it the heartless gold digger never will.”

“Was THAT supposed to be a confession?” Ben’s voice dripped with venomous sarcasm.

“In a court of law, it would come down to your word against mine,” the man said complacently.

Ben, alternating between revulsion, rage, and a general, encompassing sickness of heart, wanted so much to wrap his fingers around this man’s neck and squeeze the life out of him. “Miss O’Toole wanted NOTHING from you! NOTHING!” he said contemptuously. “She was a proud woman, determined to make her own way in the world and provide the best she could for her boy.”

“It would have come down to blackmail sooner or later, Mister Cartwright,” the man said in a faintly condescending tone. “Especially since my stupid son wrote to her nearly everyday. EVERY DAY! I had the letters intercepted at the post office here, of course . . . she almost certainly would have kept them as evidence to blackmail my son and me. When he wrote last month and told her he was coming to take her back to Boston to marry her, well I HAD to do something.” He paused. “Mister Cartwright, it has indeed been a pleasure chatting with you this evening. However, the night grows cold and I have a warm fire at home waiting. If I might have the diary?”

“You will NOT get Miss O’Toole’s diary until I see my son,” Ben stated adamantly.

“No, Mister Cartwright, you will NOT see your son unless and until I get that diary,” the man said smoothly. “Stalemate. Of course time is on MY side. I figure you have maybe half an hour before my men kill your boy anyway.”

“If I give you the diary, what kind of guarantee do I have that I’ll see my boy?” Ben demanded.

“You have my solemn word,” the man said simply, savoring the taste of victory he saw lying within his grasp.

The solemn word of the man standing before him carried with it all the value of a plugged wooden nickel. Even so, he had no choice. If this man was in fact the same man who murdered the woman who had written her thoughts in that small book, he had no doubt in his mind that the man would carry through on his threat to murder Joe in the same slow, terrible way. Ben, his body trembling with pent up rage and frustration reached into his pocket and drew out the small leather bound diary.

“A wise decision,” the man declared in a smug, insultingly condescending tone. He held out his had expectantly.

“When can I expect to see my son?” Ben demanded.

“Soon, Mister Cartwright, very soon indeed,” the man drew his weapon from its holster in a quick, swift almost cat-like movement. “If you would be so kind as to unbuckle your gun belt?”

Ben stared at the man standing before him, his face a mixture of shock, horror and astonishment.

“Your gun belt, Mister Cartwright,” the man prodded. “Remove it and throw it on the ground right here, at my feet.”

“You . . . you meant to kill Joe and me all along, didn’t you?” Ben stammered, as he slowly unbuckled the gun belt.

“I have no choice,” the man said. “If I leave the two of you alive, you’ll go to the sheriff and I’LL go to jail. I’ve worked far too long, too hard, sacrificed too much to lose everything now.” He paused. “Since you’ve been so cooperative, I promise you and your son will die quick and easy, with a single bullet.”

“Step into the moonlight here,” Ben ordered in a voice as cold as ice and harder than steel.

“Excuse me?”

“I have the right to see the face of my murderer.”

“As you wish,” the man shrugged, then complied.

“Judge William Caine,” Ben spat.

“Don’t act so surprised, Mister Cartwright, you knew who I was all along,” the judge said. “You and your family have had this poisonous little tome in your possession long enough to have read it from cover to cover several times.”

William Caine’s mention of his family sent a wave bone chilling fear racing down Ben’s spine.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright, I’ll have to dispatch your son, Hoss, and daughter, Stacy, as well,” William said. “However, I have my moments of magnanimity. In gratitude for your co-operation in turning Miss O’Toole’s diary over to me, they, like you and Joe, will also die quickly with a single bullet.” He deftly removed his gun from its holster and took aim.

Lotus O’Toole’s face, nose broken, both eyes blackened, the one swollen shut suddenly passed before his eyes. Her face faded into that of her son, Timmy his eyes wide open and staring, the light of his life gone. Timmy’s face became Hoss’ face, which in turn faded into Joe’s face, then Stacy’s, all of them lifeless masks. That dreadful vision galvanized Ben to action. He leapt, seizing the judge firmly around the waist, bringing him to the ground with a hard thud, before the latter could even think of reacting.

For what seemed a terrible eternity, Ben and the judge found themselves locked in a desperate life or death struggle for possession of the gun. The weapon discharged. Searing pain raced through Ben’s torso like a forest fire, raging out of control. Gritting his teeth, he curled into a semi-fetal position, clutching his side to staunch the flow of blood.  
The judge rose unsteadily to his feet, turned, and aimed at Ben’s head. “Good night, Mister Cartwright . . . and good-by.”

A shot rang out, from beyond the circle of trees, striking the forearm of the judge’s gun hand. He dropped his weapon as if it had suddenly turned into a live, hot coal, howling in agony.

“Freeze!” Roy Coffee, striding into the circle of trees, his own gun drawn.

Two other men followed at his heels, guns drawn and ready. “Don’t even THINK of trying to make a run for it. I have men surrounding this thicket o’ trees, an’ more on the way.” He peered into the darkness, searching for the Cartwright Family patriarch. “Ben?”

Relief surged through Ben like a raging flash flood. “Here, Roy, I’ve been hit. I-I’m . . . I’m gonna need Doc M-Martin . . . . ”

“Harris, g’won back to town ‘n fetch the doctor,” Roy ordered the younger of the two men who had accompanied him into the grove of trees. “Bring ‘im to the Ponderosa.”

Harris nodded curtly, then set off at a dead run.

Ben’s eyes caught a sudden, swift movement in the darkness. “Roy! Look out!”

The judge with a single, quick fluid move, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled a small pistol. He took aim at Roy, and fired.

Ben’s shouted warning came in time for the sheriff to move and avoid ending up lying on a slab in the Virginia City Morgue. However, the bullet grazed the sheriff’s temple, knocking him off his feet and rendering him senseless. The judge took aim at Ben.

“Drop it, Father!”

The judge started violently and turned just in time to see his oldest boy riding into the copse of trees, with Abel, Joe Cartwright, and Clem following behind.

“Pa?” Joe anxiously peered into the darkness.

“H-here, Joe,” Ben responded, his voice barely audible. “Stay . . . stay back, Son, please . . . .”

William, Junior, meanwhile, raised the rifle in his hands, aiming for his father’s head. “I told you to drop your gun, Father,” he said in a tight, angry voice.

“Put that thing away, Boy,” the judge addressed his oldest son in the same condescending way an adult might address an unusually stupid child.

“I told you to drop that gun,” Bill said through clenched teeth. “Now!”

“Cut the charade, Boy, you haven’t got the nerve to pull that trigger.”

“If you don’t drop that gun right now, Father, I swear, as God is my witness, I’ll drop YOU right where you stand.”

The judge blithely ignored his older son, returning his attention to Ben Cartwright. He raised the pistol in his hand once again and took aim.

In the next instant William Caine, Junior, pulled the trigger of his rifle.

“Y-you . . . you sh-shot Pa!” Abel stammered, his eyes round with shock.

“Your brother had no choice, Son,” Clem said quietly, placing a steady, comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. He gazed earnestly into the stricken boy’s face, and saw something else along with the stupefied horror.

Relief.

Joe ran his father’s side, and there dropped to his knees. “Pa? Dear God, Pa, y-you’ve been shot!” His voice broke on the last word.

“Roy . . . Roy sent Harris for . . . the doctor,” Ben responded weakly. The sound of Joe’s voice was the sweetest piece of music to his ears. He wanted to laugh, cry, dance, and jump up and down with joy, despite his physical agony. “I’ll . . . I’ll be alright, Son . . . p-promised Stacy, now I . . . I promise YOU.” He sighed, then lost consciousness.

 

“Ben, you’re a very, very lucky man,” Paul Martin said wearily, as he finished binding the abdominal wound left by the bullet fired from the judge’s gun. “It entered, passed through clean, and went out, all the while missing your vital organs. Follow my instructions exactly to the letter, and you’ll be up and around in a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?!” Ben echoed, with a sinking heart. “A couple of weeks?”

“A couple of weeks!” Paul sternly reiterated.

“Your instructions?” Ben growled.

“Plenty of rest . . . and I DO mean rest, Ben . . . . ”

“I . . . I have work to do!”

“The boys can handle it,” Paul said firmly.

Ben favored the doctor with the darkest scowl he could muster.

“Ben, this enforced convalescence presents a rare opportunity for you,” Paul said, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

“WHAT rare opportunity, Paul?” Ben demanded in a sullen tone of voice.

“An opportunity to teach that high spirited daughter of yours by setting a good example,” the doctor answered in a wry tone. “She just bought herself another two weeks.”

Ben looked up at his doctor in complete and utter disbelief.

“Stacy had actually saddled her horse and was ready to ride after you this evening,” the doctor said gravely. “Thankfully your new man talked her out of it, but still, all that heavy lifting set her back.”

Ben made a mental note to thank Jonathan Smith profusely in the morning.

“In the meantime, Ben, you have two sons and a daughter anxiously waiting to see you,” Paul said in a kindlier tone.

Ben had vague, dreamlike memories of riding home on a horse borrowed from Judge Caine’s stable, wrapped firmly in the arms of his youngest son. He stirred as Hoss tenderly carried him upstairs to his bed, as easily as Ben had once carried Hoss in his own arms many years ago as a baby, and again as Stacy, her eyes bright with unshed tears, helped Hop Sing get him settled. “Paul, please, send them in,” he begged.

Paul Martin rose and crossed the room to the door. “Hoss, Stacy, Joe, you can come in now,” he invited, “but keep it brief. Your pa needs his rest.”

The Cartwright offspring entered the room, as the doctor discreetly withdrew, their careworn faces a varied mixture of anguish and a deep, profound relief. Stacy circled around to the side of the bed farthest from the door and gingerly seated herself on the edge. Hoss carefully sat next to his father on the other side of the bed, while Joe drew up a chair beside his sister, and straddled it backwards.

“What’s with the long faces?” Ben asked, barely managing a wan smile. “The doc says I’m going to be fine. In fact, I’ll be back on my feet in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s great, Pa,” Joe said with a tired smile.

“As for YOU, Young Woman,” Ben turned his attention to Stacy, noting her red cheeks and swollen eyelids, “Doctor Martin told me about you saddling Blaze Face.”

“What?” Hoss looked over at his sister in complete and utter disbelief.

“I was going to go after Pa,” Stacy said in a small, contrite voice. “Jonathan . . . talked me out of it.” She turned back to her father, her blue eyes looking earnestly into his dark ones. “Am I in trouble, Pa?”

Ben shook his head. “I’m certainly in no shape right now for a trip out to the barn,” he teased, then sobered. “However, for the next two weeks you and I are going to follow doctor’s orders TO THE LETTER,” he said. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy replied.

 

Paul Martin, meanwhile, quietly made his way down the steps, after leaving Ben Cartwright alone with his children. He saw Jonathan Smith and William Caine Jr. sitting together at the dining room table, with Timmy between them. The boy chattered like a proverbial magpie, directing the bulk of his near one-sided conversation toward William, who listened attentively gazing down at the child, his face a mixture of wonder, awe, love, and sadness. Looking from Timmy, to William, and back to Timmy once again, the small subtle resemblances hit him like a hard blow to the solar plexus.

Catching sight of the doctor, Jonathan rose, leaving Timmy and William Caine alone at the table. “Is Mister Cartwright going to be alright?” Jonathan asked.

The doctor nodded wearily. “Of course HE can be just as impatient to get back on his feet as his daughter,” he said gravely.

“Like father, like daughter, eh?” Jonathan quipped with a half smile.

“Their guardian angels’ll be working a lot of overtime the next couple of weeks,” Paul sighed, “just to make sure the pair of ‘em rest like they’re supposed to.”

“Don’t worry, those guardian angels’ll handle things just fine,” Jonathan said knowingly.

Paul stole a glance at Timmy and William, still seated at the table, in animated conversation with one another. “He really IS that boy’s father, isn’t he?” the doctor murmured softly. “Ben kept saying that over and over, talking about telling Hoss while I removed the bullet. I’d thought it was . . . well, you know how people talk when they’re temporarily out of their heads.”

“Yes, on both counts,” Jonathan replied.

“Where’s Miss Tess? She’d asked if she might ride back to town with me when I’d finished here . . . . ”

“She’s out in the barn with Abel,” Jonathan said . . . .

 

Shortly after Hoss had carried his father upstairs, with Joe and Stacy anxiously following at his heels, Abel Caine quietly slipped out the front door, and made his way to the barn. There, he half-collapsed, half-fell onto the hay bale near the stall occupied by Stacy Cartwright’s horse, Blaze Face. With a strangled sob, he buried his face in his hands unable to erase from his sight the vision of his father’s lifeless body, eyes round with the shock and astonishment he must have felt in the instant Bill had pulled the trigger.

“I . . . I’m s-s-sorry, I’m s-so sorry,” he sobbed, “so s-sorry I’m . . . I’m n-not strong like y-you . . . . ”

The sounds of Lotus O’Toole sobbing so heart wrenchingly, pleading for her life, begging mercy, and screaming in anguish would almost certainly haunt him the rest of his life. His father forced him to stand outside the fast closed door of the study and listen . . . .

 

 _“Sissy Boy! You listen and listen good to what happens when people cross me,” William Caine, Senior had sneered. “You could use the toughening up.”_

 _Abel stood in the alcove, staring in horrified, morbid fascination at the fast closed door, his arms folded tightly across his chest, weeping hysterically trying to drown the sounds of her screams with his own. There was one agonizing scream, more dreadful, somehow than all the rest, followed by a terrible, deafening silence. Abel came away feeling sick inside and consumed with anger. In the days immediately following, he had taken the latter out on Stacy Cartwright, something he deeply regretted now . . . ._

 

Tonight, when Abel saw Mister Crawford and a couple of other men carrying Joe Cartwright, bound hand and foot, into his father’s study, the same room in which the O’Toole woman had been assaulted and brutalized, he had no doubt in his mind at all regarding his father’s intentions. Maybe he WAS a weak sissy as his father hastened to remind him at every opportunity, but he just could not stand the thought of standing outside the closed doors of the study again, listening to someone else scream and cry the way Lotus O’Toole had. He knew his older brother was in town, lodged at the International Hotel. His decision to tell Bill had set in motion the chain of events that ended in his own father’s death. He had killed his own father, just as surely as Bill did when he fired that rifle.

“Abel? Abel, are you out here?”

He glanced up sharply, and saw Miss Tess entering the barn.

“Abel.”

“Go away,” he snarled. “I want to be left alone.”

“The last thing in the world you need right now is to be alone,” Tess said sternly. “You’ve been left alone entirely too much throughout your brief span of years, Young Man.”

Abel glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. He had the unsettling feeling that she knew every detail, every minute of his life as intimately as he himself did.

“You saved two lives tonight, Abel,” Tess said quietly. “That took a lot of strength and COURAGE on your part.”

“I did it because I’m a sissy,” Abel said bitterly. “I couldn’t stand the thought of what happened to Miss O’Toole happening to Joe Cartwright because I’m a sissy.”

“No,” Tess said sternly, her mouth thinning to a hard, angry line. “You couldn’t stand the thought of Joe Cartwright suffering what Miss O’Toole suffered because you’re basically a kind, decent, highly principled young man, whose sense of honor, decency, and moral outrage had enough.”

Abel stared up at her, listening intently.

“It takes a strong man to be all of those things,” Tess continued, “and a courageous one to risk acting on all those things.” She paused. “Surely you don’t think Mister Cartwright is a sissy!?”

“Absolutely not!” Abel declared stoutly.

“HE’S very much all of those things . . . and more.”

Abel silently digested her words, and saw, for the first time the correlation of all those characteristics. He also realized that for all the unkind, cruel things his father said about the Cartwrights, his father was actually afraid of them, especially BEN Cartwright, because of all those qualities they embodied. Had his own father actually been afraid of him, too?

“Miss Tess?”

“Yes, Abel?”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . what’s going to happen to me?” Abel asked. “Now that my father’s dead, and Bill’s got his own boy to raise, what’s going to happen to ME? I’ve never been on my own before . . . I don’t even know if I can manage.”

“That boy can use an uncle,” Tess said with a smile.

“Maybe, but he won’t want ME for one, Miss Tess, that’s for sure,” Abel said soberly, “not after the way I treated him since his first day of school.” He sighed and shook his head. “They ALL hate me, Miss Tess, the Cartwrights, the kids at school, Timmy, and probably my brother after Timmy gets through talkin’ to him. Everyone hates me! The funny thing now is, before I would have said it was all their fault, and hated them back. Now . . . I can’t blame any of ‘em for hating me.”

“Baby, no one hates you, no one ever did,” Tess said. “Especially God.”

“God?!” Abel echoed incredulously, when he turned to face her, his jaw dropped.

Miss Tess sat on the hay bale beside him, clothed in a brilliant white light that emanated from within. The light bathed and surrounded her, dazzling and illuminating, without any kind of blinding glare. “Yes, Abel, I’m an angel,” Tess said.

“W-why have you come?”

“To remind you that God loves you,” Tess replied. “He’s seen you through a lot, Baby. He cried with you all the times your father beat you and punished you for no good reason, He was with you all the times you were in pain and afraid, hurting right along with you, and He grieved the times you fell, as ALL of us fall, Baby. And through it all, He gave you the strength and courage to endure, all the while surrounding and holding you up with His Love.”

“I remember, Miss Tess,” Abel said, smiling through his tears. “When I think back on all that, I DO remember sensing the presence of Someone always with me.”

“No matter what happens to you, Abel, even if you DO end up on your own, God will continue to be there,” Tess said.

“Th-thanks, Miss Tess,” Abel said, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Thanks for reminding me. I’d f-forgotten lately.”

Miss Tess slipped her arms around Abel and hugged him close. “We ALL need reminding from time to time, Baby.”

Abel leaned against her, wondering for a brief, fleeting moment if being held by one’s mother felt anything like this. “Do angels need reminding?”

“Yes, Baby, angels need reminding, too.”

“Surely not you . . . . ”

“Especially me,” she said simply.

“Do Timmy and Stacy know? About you?”

“Stacy’s met my partner, and she and Timmy will know all about me after you tell them,” Tess said with a smile.

“Tess?” It was Jonathan. “Doc Martin’s ready to go back to town.”

“You’re riding in a buggy?” Abel stared at her with open skepticism. “You’re not gonna . . . well, fly?”

“We fly back and forth between Heaven and Earth,” Jonathan said. “But, while we’re on Earth, we get around the same way everyone else does.”

“This is my partner, Jonathan,” Tess said. She had reverted to being once again the Virginia City school marm.

“Will I see you in school tomorrow, Miss Tess?” Abel asked.

Tess shook her head. “Your real teacher’s coming in tomorrow,” she said, “but I won’t be leaving Virginia City just yet. I have one last piece of business to take care of first.”

 

The following morning, Ben Cartwright woke up to the delicious aroma of bacon, coffee, and pancakes. He yawned, licking his lips appreciatively, then turned, his eyes resting on the window of the wall running parallel to his bed. Through the parted curtains, he could see bright azure blue sky and brilliant shimmering aspens and cottonwoods. The sound of the wind blowing through tree branches and pounding against the window and the early morning chill in the room bespoke the beginning of a spectacular autumn day. Today would have been a perfect day to ride out to Ponderosa Plunge, or maybe the shores of the lake to enjoy the crisp autumn weather and contemplate the Creator within it all.

Ben gingerly eased himself to a sitting position, wincing as his awkward movements set off a dull, throbbing ache in his side. There would be no ride to the lake or to Ponderosa Plunge for him today, due to the grave nature of the gunshot wound inflicted on him by the late Judge William Caine the night before. Yet, thanks to the actions of the judge’s sons, there would be other autumn days like this one, and, hopefully, many more autumns to come. Though Ben found no joy in the death of Judge Caine, he found cause to rejoice that he and Joe had both survived. He closed his eyes and murmured a short, yet heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

An insistent knock on the closed door to his bedroom roused him from his meditations.

“Yes?” Ben responded. “Who is it?”

The door opened and Hop Sing entered carrying a tray with a big healthy stack of pancakes generously buttered, and overflowing with thick maple syrup. A half dozen slices of bacon were on a separate plate, and there was a large mug of steaming hot coffee. “Hop Sing serve breakfast, Mister Cartwright,” he announced. “You big man. Not big like Mister Hoss, but still big man! Big man must eat.”

“Hop Sing, you’re an absolute Godsend!” Ben declared with a broad grin. “Right now, I’m so hungry, I could eat a whole herd of horses.”

“That good!” Hop Sing said approvingly. “Room cold. Hop Sing build fire in fireplace.”

“No, don’t bother, Hop Sing, please,” Ben adamantly shook his head. “As soon as I finish breakfast, I intend to at the very least put on my bathrobe and g’won downstairs.”

Hop Sing looked over at him with open skepticism and frank disapproval.

“Hop Sing, I promise you, I won’t do anything more strenuous than sit down by the fire in the living room, put my feet up, and read a good book,” Ben said earnestly.

“Mister Cartwright, you WORSE than Mister Hoss, Mister Adam, Little Joe, AND Miss Stacy ALL PUT TOGETHER,” Hop Sing declared, as he placed the breakfast tray on Ben’s lap.

“I should be,” Ben quipped, “I have a few years up on them when it comes to learning how to be impatient.”

Hop Sing favored his old friend with a dark ‘I-am-not-amused’ glare.

Ben’s smile faded. “Is Hoss awake yet?” he asked, turning his thoughts to more serious matters.

“Mister Hoss wake up early,” Hop Sing replied. “Chop wood, build fire. Timmy up, too. Timmy talking to Mister Hoss now about going back to school.”

“Would you mind asking Hoss to come up?” Ben asked, his voice tinged with sadness and regret. “There’s something I have to tell him.”

“Timmy not be part of Cartwright Family,” Hop Sing said.

“I . . . know who Timmy’s father is,” Ben said slowly.

“Hop Sing know, too, Mister Cartwright. Older Caine boy. He Timmy’s papa.”

“How did you find out?” Ben asked, looking up at Hop Sing in surprise.

“Hop Sing see Older Caine Boy with Timmy,” Hop Sing said gravely. “Older Caine Boy knows and knows not . . . like you and Miss Stacy at first.”

Ben nodded.

“Then Mister Hoss not adopt,” Hop Sing said.

“That’s right, Hop Sing,” Ben said quietly. “Mister Hoss not adopt.”

Hop Sing turned and left the room. A few moments later, Hoss stepped through the door, fully dressed, his cheeks red and hair mussed from his venture outside to split and fetch firewood earlier. “ ‘Mornin’, Pa,” Hoss greeted him with a smile. “You’re lookin’ a mite better ‘n you did last night . . . . ”

“I feel better, and I’m hungry as a bear,” Ben said, stabbing a hefty portion of the stacked pancakes with his fork. He had already consumed two thirds of the pancakes and all but one slice of the bacon. “Pull up a chair, Son, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Something in the tone of voice warned Hoss that whatever it was his father had to say wasn’t going to be good. He crossed the room to the other side of the bed and pulled up the same chair his younger brother had occupied the night before. “What is it, Pa?”

Ben looked over at Hoss, dark eyes meeting light blue, desperately wracking his brain to find the right words to say.

“Pa . . . . ?” Hoss prodded gently.

Ben sighed. There WAS no right or particularly kind way to say what needed to be said. “Hoss, I . . . I found out who Timmy’s father is last night,” he said quietly.

Hoss felt like he had been sucker punched with a hard blow to his solar plexus. All he could do was stare at his father, his eyes round with shock.

“William Caine, Junior is Timmy’s father, Hoss,” Ben said.

“H-how . . . how d’ya know that, Pa?” Hoss murmured.

“Judge Caine told me.”

Hoss frowned. “How d’ya know he wasn’t lyin’?”

“Because, at the time, he was so sure HE was going to walk away, leaving me dead and all of his secrets buried with me, that he confessed to everything,” Ben said. “That’s why he killed Miss O’Toole, Son, because he was afraid SHE would let it be known that Timmy was William, Junior’s son.”

An angry scowl knotted Hoss’ brow. “Where has William Caine, Junior been keepin’ himself f’r the last six years, Pa?” he demanded. “Where was he while Lotus worked herself to the bone, tryin’ to provide f’r herself and Timmy? I’ll tell ya where he was, Pa. He was attendin’ a big, fancy university back east without a care in the world.”

“Hoss . . . . ”

“No, Pa!” Hoss protested, his voice rising. “William Caine, Junior made love to Lotus, ‘n left her. She gave birth to Timmy without him, an’ she raised that boy all by herself, with no help at all from William, Junior. In MY book, he don’t deserve to have Timmy.”

“Did you see William Caine, Junior at Lotus O’Toole’s funeral?” Ben asked gently.

Hoss silently pondered the question, then shook his head. “I was kinda busy keepin’ an eye on Timmy, an’ helpin’ Joe git through his piece,” he replied.

“I saw him, Son,” Ben said. “From the look on his face, I could tell that he loved Lotus O’Toole very much.” He fell silent for a moment. “I must have looked a lot like he did when your mother, Inger, died.”

“ . . . an’ when Adam’s, Joe’s, and Stacy’s mothers died, too, I expect,” Hoss said ruefully.

“He DID write to Miss O’Toole,” Ben continued. “His father intercepted the letters. Ironically, he unwittingly brought about her death when he wrote and told her he was coming for her . . . to marry her.”

Hoss glanced up at his father sharply. “Was he really . . . . ?”

Ben nodded.

“Does William, Junior know that Timmy’s his son?” Hoss asked.

“According to Hop Sing, he knows right now the way I knew Stacy was my daughter the first moment I set eyes on her,” Ben said.

“I guess it’s gonna be up to me t’ tell ‘im,” Hoss said, averting his eyes from Ben’s face to the hands folded in his lap.

“Hoss, I’m so sorry . . . . ” were the only words Ben could even think of saying. He wished with all his heart that he could rise up out of bed and take that big ox of a man sitting in the chair facing him and hold him until the hurt went away, as he did when Hoss, as a boy, came home with a bee sting or a scraped knee. “Son, if you’d rather I . . . . ”  
“Pa, ain’t no way you’re goin’ into town against Doc Martin’s orders,” Hoss said firmly. He rose, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’ll be all right, Pa, I promise.”

“If you need me, Son . . . . ”

“I know where t’ find ya,” Hoss said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “I guess I’ll be headin’ off into town.”

“No!”

Ben and Hoss turned. There, standing framed in the open doorway stood Timmy O’Toole, his face pale, his eyes round with shocked horror. He bolted into the room, running head long toward Hoss. Upon reaching the chair, Timmy climbed into Hoss’ lap, threw his small arms around his neck and clung for dear life. “I don’t wanna go with my pa, Mister Hoss,” he sobbed. “I wanna stay HERE. I want YOU to be my pa.”

Hoss put his arms around the boy and held him close. “Timmy,” he began as the boy’s weeping began to subside, “I want to be your pa more ‘n just about anything in this world. I meant it when I said so yesterday, an’ I mean it now.” He paused, as fresh tears stung his own eyes. “But . . . seein’ as we know who your pa is . . . it may not be possible for ME to be your pa . . . . ”

“NO!” Timmy wrenched himself from Hoss’ embrace and tore out of the room.

“I’d better go after ‘im, Pa,” Hoss said sadly.

 

Timmy ran down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him, sobbing wildly. Stacy, standing at the second landing side stepped, barely avoiding what could have been an agonizing collision with the young juggernaut. Joe, standing at the bottom of the stairs, reached out and grabbed the boy’s forearm.

“Hey, Timmy, what’s wrong?” Joe asked.

“LET GO OF ME!” the boy screamed. He pulled with all his might, wrenching free of Joe’s grasp. He, then, turned heel and ran out the front door in the direction of the barn, leaving Joe and Stacy staring after him in shocked bewilderment.

“What wrong with Timmy?” Hop Sing queried, moving from the dining room table toward the steps.

“I’ll letcha know,” Joe said, starting for the front door.

“You stay put, Li’l Brother,” Hoss said from the top landing. “I’LL see to Timmy.”

 

Hoss found Timmy lying face down in a pile of hay stacked in one of the unoccupied stalls, sobbing piteously. He sat down beside the distraught boy to wait for the storm of weeping and wailing to subside. Hoss placed a comforting hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, alternately weeping along with Timmy, and feeling intense anger toward William Caine, Junior for being the boy’s natural father.

“Hoss . . . Timmy . . . I was told I’d find you both here.”

Both of them looked up, their faces wet with tears, and saw Miss Tess leaning against the bottom door of the stall, looking down at them.

Timmy immediately scrambled to his feet and ran over to his teacher. “Please, Miss Tess, don’t let ‘em send me to my pa, please,” the boy sobbed, wrapping his arms tightly about Tess’ knees.

Tess gently unwrapped Timmy’s arms from around her knees, then carefully knelt down to his eye level. “What’s this all about?” she asked gently, looking from Hoss to Timmy, then back to Hoss.

“We know who Timmy’s pa is,” Hoss said sadly.

“I hate him!” Timmy declared vehemently. “I hate him! I don’t want to go with him, I want to stay here with Mister Hoss.”

“Timmy, if your ma were here, she’d be crying just as hard as you are right now,” Tess said in a gentle, yet firm tone.

“W-why?” Timmy sniffled and looked over at her expectantly.

“Because your ma loved your pa very much,” Tess replied, “as much, I dare say, as she loved YOU. The last thing in the world she would have wanted was for you to hate him.”

Timmy silently thought the matter over. “Ma told me once that she loved Pa,” he said slowly. “But, Pa didn’t love her. He left her and me, too. I heard Mister Cartwright and Mister Hoss say so.”

“Timmy, he left ‘cause he didn’t know ‘bout you,” Hoss said quietly. “Your ma never told him.”

“Why?”

“All I c’n tell ya is she had her reasons,” Hoss replied. “I don’t know what they were. I don’t think any of us’ll know what they were. But, none o’ that matters now, Timmy. What matters now is f’r you to meet your pa, an’ git to know him.”

“I won’t!” Timmy declared, stubbornly folding his arms tight across his chest. “I won’t ‘cause I hate him.”

“You didn’t hate him last night, Baby.”

Timmy and Hoss both looked over at Tess their mouths open.

“Remember that nice man you were talking to, after Mister Hoss went upstairs with Mister Joe and Stacy, to see his pa?” Tess asked.

“The one with Mister Smith?” Timmy asked in a very small voice.

“Yes,” Tess nodded.

“Is . . . is he . . . HE’S my real pa?” Timmy asked.

Tess nodded once again. “He seemed like an awfully nice man to ME, Timmy,” she said.

“H-he was nice,” Timmy agreed, his voice breaking under a fresh onslaught of tears.

“I watched him as he listened and talked to you,” Tess continued. “I think he liked YOU a whole lot. When he gets to know you better, HE’S going to love you just as much as your ma did, maybe even more, because he’s going to be with you longer.”

“Will I still get to see Mister Hoss?” Timmy asked.

Tess solemnly shook her head. “Your pa lives in a city named Boston, Timmy,” she said quietly. “Boston lies more than three thousand miles away, on the other side of the country.”

“I don’t want to go!” Timmy insisted stubbornly. “I love Mister Hoss. I don’t want to leave him.”

“Timmy, you can always write to me, and I’ll write back to you,” Hoss said.

“I don’t want to live in a city, Mister Hoss. I lived in Virginia City with Ma, and it sometimes wasn’t nice,” Timmy said. “I want to live here on the Ponderosa, with you, Stacy, Mister Joe, your pa, and Hop Sing. Please, can I?”

“Boston ain’t anything like Virginia City,” Hoss said quietly. “For one thing, it’s a lot bigger, but that ain’t necessarily a bad thing. There’ll be plenty o’ schools, museums, libraries, things like that we don’t have here in Virginia City. Timmy, you’re a smart boy when it comes to readin’ and doin’ school work. You remind me a lot o’ my older brother, Adam, that way. I think that’s one reason why it was so important to your ma that you get as good an education as you could. You’ll have lots more opportunity to do that in Boston.”

“Mister Hoss is absolutely right about that, Timmy,” Tess said in agreement.

“But, Mister Hoss needs me!” the boy cried.

“Yes, I do,” Hoss said. “But as much as I need you, I think your pa’s gonna need you a lot more, Timmy, and you’re gonna find that you need him, too.”

“Is . . . is his brother, Abel, going to Boston, too?” Timmy asked, not without trepidation.

“Yes, Timmy,” Tess replied.

“He hates me! I don’t want to be with Abel,” Timmy said fearfully.

“Abel’s been through a lot of grief with his and your father’s pa,” Tess said. “He has said and done a lot of mean things to you, and others, because of it.” She fell silent for a moment. “I had a talk with Abel last night Timmy, while you were talking with your pa. He knows the mean things he said and did were wrong, and he regrets having done them. I think he deserves a second chance.”

“Maybe,” Timmy allowed reluctantly, “but, here, I have friends, like Stacy and Molly, and Mister Hoss. I don’t know anyone in Boston.”

“You’ll be with your pa and Uncle Abel, of course,” Tess said with a smile, “and Someone else will be there, too. He’ll be with you as you make the trip, AND he’ll be waiting for you when you get to Boston.”

Timmy looked up at her, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. “How can anyone be in two places at the same time, Miss Tess?”

“Being two places at the same time’s a piece of cake for HIM, Timmy, because He’s actually everywhere.”

“I thought only GOD could be everywhere,” Timmy said.

“That’s exactly right,” Tess said. A twinkling white dot of starlight appeared on her chest, where her heart would be. It grew and spread, enveloping her in it’s brightness. The light became her, and she became the light.

“M-Miss Tess?” Hoss barely managed to stammer.

“What ARE you, Miss Tess?” Timmy asked, deeply awed by the change in his school teacher’s appearance.

“I’m an angel sent by God,” Tess said. “My partner and I were sent here to see that a terrible wrong was put right. That’s done. Another reason I came was to let you know, Timmy, that God is with you. No matter where you go, even if you end up alone, God is still with you.”

“Why, Miss Tess? Why does God want to be with me?”

“Because He loves you, Timmy,” Tess replied. “He loves you very, very much. More than I can possibly say.”

“Even . . . even that day I said I hated him?” Timmy asked, recalling the terrible afternoon Reverend Hildebrandt had come to pay a visit.

“Yes, Timmy, even that day,” Tess replied. “God knew that you were very upset, and He understood why.”

Timmy looked vastly relieved.

“Timmy, I need to speak to Mister Hoss alone for a few moments,” Tess said gently.

“Ok, Miss Tess,” Timmy agreed. “I’m going up to my room, tell God I’m sorry about the mean things I said to Him the other day.” With that, he scrambled to his feet and ran back toward the house.

“Hoss,” Tess said, once they were alone, “God has a special message for you.”

“For me, Miss Tess?” he echoed incredulously.

Tess nodded. “God is a Father, too,” she said, “to all that lives, breathes, and has being. He knows what it is to love a child, and He knows well the pain of losing a child. You’ve come to love Timmy as a father, Hoss, and you’re experiencing the pain and grief now of losing that child. God knows how you’re feeling right now, and He’s right there with you to hold you up, to give you strength, and to cry right along with you.”

Hoss bowed his head, as tears once again freely cascaded down his cheeks.

Tess walked over and put her arms around him. “You did something very courageous, and very unselfish today, Baby,” she murmured, hugging Hoss close. “You let Timmy go.”

“I . . . I only w-wanted . . . to do th-the . . . the best thing for h-him, M-Miss Tess,” Hoss put his arms around Tess and clung to her for a long moment.

“God’s also given you a very precious gift to help you through the days to come,” Tess said.

Hoss looked over at her in amazement. “What g-gift is that, Miss Tess?”

“Your family,” Tess said. “Your father, Joe, Stacy, and that wonderful Hop Sing! You’ve been there for each of them when they needed you. Now it’s YOUR turn to let them be there for you.”

Hoss looked up, meeting her eyes. “Yeah, Miss Tess, I reckon it IS,” he said.

 

While Tess spoke to Hoss in the barn, Doctor Paul Martin drove up to the house with William Caine, Junior. The latter waited, casting a nervous glance at the house, while the doctor tied his horses to the post in front of the house and retrieved his bag.

“Let’s go in, Son,” the doctor said gently.

Bill Caine, Junior nodded. “Y-yeah, let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice trembling. “I . . . I won’t blame the Cartwrights one bit if they order me out of their house without even allowing me to see the boy . . . . ”

Paul flashed Bill a warm smile of encouragement. “The Cartwrights aren’t like that, Bill,” he said, “you’ll see.”

Joe Cartwright opened the front door as the two men approached. “I thought I heard someone driving up,” he said by way of greeting, “please . . . come in.”

“Thanks, Joe,” the doctor said with a smile. “I thought I’d come check up on your father. Bill, here, asked me for a lift.”

“Paul?” It was Ben, seated in the easy chair closest to the fire, his feet propped up on an ottoman. He started to rise.

“No, Ben, don’t get up,” Paul said firmly. “You really ought to be upstairs in bed.”

“I indulged myself by having breakfast in bed this morning,” Ben said with a touch of cantankerousness. “Otherwise . . . I find being down here with my family a lot more healing than lying upstairs alone all day.”

“Just don’t over do it, Ben,” Paul warned. “I’d like to check your wound and change those bandages.”

“You need hot water or anything, Doctor?” Joe asked.

“I don’t think so, Joe,” Paul replied.

“Why don’t we g’won over to the settee?” Ben suggested, rising stiffly to his feet. He slowly made his way across the living room area to the settee and sat down very gingerly.  
Paul Martin deftly removed the old bandages and glanced over the wound with a very critical eye. “I’m very happy to say you’re coming along quite well, Ben,” he said at length. “Joe, would you mind fetching me my bag? It’s over there next to the chair your pa just left.”

“Sure thing, Doc,” Joe agreed. He placed the black bag in the doctor’s lands in less than half a minute.

Paul opened his bag and drew out a large clear glass bottle of alcohol. “Grit your teeth, Ben, this is going to sting a bit.” He quickly yet thoroughly swabbed out the wound and applied a fresh, clean bandage. “How’s Stacy doing?”

“Both of us are following your instructions to the letter, Paul,” Ben replied. “Right now, she’s upstairs with Timmy . . . . ” He glanced up and saw Bill standing next to the sofa, gazing down at him nervously. “Bill, I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “Please sit down here next to me. We have to talk. Joe . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Would you go up and ask Stacy and Timmy to come down here, please?”

“Sure, Pa,” Joe agreed.

“Bill . . . . ” Ben turned his complete attention on the younger man seated next to him on the settee.

“I know, Mister Cartwright,” Bill said earnestly. “It just, all of a sudden hit me when Abel and I got back to the hotel. I sat down, did some figuring . . . it all adds up to me being   
Timmy’s father.”

Ben nodded. “Your father told me everything last night,” he said. “Are you here to take the boy?”

“I want to take Timmy very much,” Bill said earnestly. “He’s all I have left of Lotus. But, I don’t want to make trouble . . . for Timmy, or for you. If Timmy doesn’t want to go, or if you tell me no, and to be honest I don’t think I’d blame you in the least if you DID say no, I won’t force the boy to come with me.”

“Bill, I promise you I won’t stand in your way,” Ben said quietly. “The two of you need each other, and Boston certainly offers a lot more educational possibilities than Virginia City. Timmy’s a very bright young man, you know.”

“S-so I’ve been told,” Bill said quietly.

Two pair of quiet footsteps in the stairs caught and held Ben’s and Bill’s attention.

Timmy, seeing the young man he knew to be his father immediately left Stacy and ran down the rest of the way. He wound his way past the arrangement of furniture coming to a stop standing directly in from of his father.

“Timmy, this is your real pa,” Ben said. “You heard Mister Hoss and me talking about him this morning.”

“Pa?” Timmy queried, looking up and meeting his father’s eyes. “Will I go with you now?”

“Timmy, do you want to come with me?” Bill asked quietly, looking hopefully expectant.

Timmy looked over at Mister Cartwright seated on the settee, and Stacy and Joe standing together at the foot of the steps. “Yes, Pa,” he said, turning resolutely back to his father. “I have to get my things and say goodbye to Mister Hoss, but yes, I will go with you.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” Bill said, his eyes unusually bright.

“Will we go to Boston now?”

“We’ll be leaving in three days, Timmy,” Bill said. “Would you like to stay here at the Ponderosa until then?”

Timmy shook his head. “Mister Hoss said I need to get to know YOU, Pa,” he replied. “I can do that better if I stay at the hotel with you and Uncle Abel.”

“Timmy, why don’t you go out and tell Mister Hoss goodbye, while I run up and fetch your things?” Joe offered.

“Ok,” with that Timmy ran out through the front door.

“Joe, Timmy’s bag’s already packed,” Stacy told her brother. “You’ll find it in Hoss’ room at the foot of the bed.”

“Thanks, Stacy, I’ll be right back.”

Timmy ran to the barn and found Mister Hoss there alone, sitting on the hay bale next to the stall occupied by Blaze Face. Miss Tess was no where in sight.

“Mister Hoss?”

Hoss glanced up sharply at the sound of the child’s inquiring voice.

“Where’s Miss Tess?”

“Gone,” Hoss replied. “Probably to her next assignment.”

“Oh,” Timmy said in a small voice. “Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Timmy?”

“I’m going with my pa,” he said quietly. One large stray tear slipped over his eye lid and rolled unchecked down his cheek. “I’m going to be with him at the hotel until we leave for Boston in three days, so I can get to know him.”

Hoss rose. “I think that’s a real fine idea,” he agreed.

“I . . . I guess this is goodbye, then . . . . ”

“Yeah, I reckon it is.”

Timmy ran over to Hoss and threw his arms tightly around his knees. The boy held on, clinging almost for dear life. “Thank you, Mister Hoss, for looking after me,” he said quickly. With that he ran back out of the barn, and into the house.

“Bye, Timmy,” Hoss whispered, his voice breaking on the boy’s name. He remained in the barn until, at long last, he heard the doctor’s buggy leaving. When Hoss entered the house, he found Stacy and Joe at the front door waiting.

“We thought maybe you could use a hug, Big Brother,” Stacy said, looking up at him earnestly.

“You’re right, Li’l Sister . . . an’ you, too, Baby Brother,” Hoss replied.

“We’re here, Big Brother,” Joe said quietly, as he and Stacy both put their arms around him. “Don’t you dare forget that.”

Hoss put one arm around Joe, the other around Stacy, and held on for a very long time . . . .

 

EPILOGUE

 

“Pa! Hoss! Stacy!” Joe called, as he stepped through the front door. “Company!”

“Please, don’t get up, Mister Cartwright,” Bill Caine said, entering the house behind Joe.

His brother, Abel, followed, with Timmy firmly holding his hand. “We can’t stay long . . . we have a stage to catch. We wanted to stop in and say good-by.”

Young William Caine was returning to Boston, with his young son, newly named Timothy O’Toole Caine, and his brother, Abel. He had arranged for Lucas Milburn to oversee the disposal of his father’s house and possessions. The proceeds would be wired   
to him in Boston, and placed in accounts toward Abel’s and Timmy’s futures.

“I certainly wish you all the best,” Ben said sincerely, shaking Bill’s hand. “If you need anything . . . anything, at all, you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright, I will,” Bill promised.

“Abel, I never got the chance to say thank you,” Stacy said, “for saving my pa and brother. You must have been the unexpected help coming to the rescue that Jonathan told me about.”

“Miss Tess’ partner,” Abel said thoughtfully.

“Miss Tess is one, too?” Stacy asked.

Abel nodded.

“I should’ve known.”

“Stacy, I’m sorry about that fight in the school yard,” Abel apologized contritely. “I said a lot o’ stupid things I wish I hadn’t.”

“I’m sorry, too, Abel,” Stacy apologized with equal sincerity. “I DID start the whole thing, after all.”

“Timmy, you keep right on studyin’ real hard an’ doin’ your homework,” Hoss said, with a wistful smile, “an’ make sure you mind your pa.”

“I will, Mister Hoss,” Timmy promised. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Pa said that when we get to Boston, and get ourselves settled, he’s going to get me a pony and take me for riding lessons,” Timmy said. “Uncle Abel can learn to ride, too, if he wants.”

“That’s wonderful, Timmy,” Hoss said.

“Will you write to me, Mister Hoss?” Timmy asked.

“I will, if you write to me,” Hoss replied.

“Promise?”

“I promise. How ‘bout YOU?”

“I promise, too, Mister Hoss.”

“Bill, I apologize for that fracas between US the other day,” Joe said contritely. “I was angry, and I said a lot of stupid things I had no business sayin’. You had every right in the world to deck me.”

“Apology accepted,” Bill said sincerely. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out the diary that had belonged to Lotus O’Toole. “Joe, I’d like you to continue your work on translating the Caltopian,” he said, placing the book in Joe’s hands. “Don’t edit, or keep anything back. I want to read everything, the good and the bad.”

“I’ll start work on it right after supper tonight,” Joe promised.

“Thanks, Joe,” Bill said, shaking his hand.

“You’re welcome, and good luck to all of you.”

The grandfather clock in the living room struck the half hour.

“Abel . . . Timmy, we need to move along,” Bill said. “We have a stage to catch.”

“Coming, Pa.”

Abel grinned. “Me, too, Big Brother.”

 

That evening, Roy Coffee joined the Cartwright Family for supper. The bullet brand, inflicted by the late Judge Caine’s pistol, had completely healed. He was gratified to see his old friend, Ben, well on the way to recovery, and Stacy as well.

“Hop Sing, as usual, you’ve outdone yourself,” Roy complimented the chef with a contented smile. “That was a wonderful meal.”

“Thank you,” Hop Sing said, beaming. “Thank you very much. Now you go in living room. Hop Sing bring coffee.”

“You heard the man,” Ben said rising stiffly.

The others seated at the table followed suit and made their way toward the living room.

“You and Stacy seem to be getting around a lot better,” Roy noted.

“That’s because they’re both gettin’ plenty o’ rest, takin’ their medicine, and swillin’ a lot o’ Hop Sing’s chicken soup,” Hoss said.

“Pa and I are keeping each other to the straight and narrow when it comes to getting plenty of rest,” Stacy said, with a meaningful glance at her father.

“That we are,” Ben agreed wholeheartedly, as he gingerly easing himself on the sofa next to Stacy. He turned to the sheriff, seated in the easy chair on his left. “Roy, how’s Sam doing?” he asked.

“He’ll be outta action awhile, Ben,” Roy said gravely, “but he’s comin’ right along. That Sally Tyler, though . . . . ” He shook his head in wonderment and awe. “She’s been over seein’ all the clean-up an’ repair to the Silver Dollar. She told me yesterday, they expect t’ be open again in two or three weeks.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Ben said.

“I understand Miss Tess left pretty abruptly, lock, stock, and barrel,” Joe said, taking the red leather easy chair once favored by his mother, Marie.

“Such is the way o’ angels, Little Brother,” Hoss said, smiling at the memory of his own conversation with Miss Tess.

“Miss Tess is an ANGEL?” Joe looked over at his older brother, openly skeptical. “As in . . . an angel from . . . . ” He pointed upward.

“Yep,” Hoss replied.

“You joshin’ me, Big Brother?”

“Nope.”

“Jonathan’s an angel, too,” Stacy said.

“You mean that ranch hand whut looked like Joe?” Hoss looked over at his sister as he might someone who had just sprouted purple horns and a halo to match. “An angel? I know fer sure YOU gotta be joshin’, Little Sister.”

“Hey! What’s THAT supposed to mean?” Joe demanded indignantly, glaring at his older brother.

“It means you’ve been insulted, Li’l Brother,” Hoss said with a smug, complacent smile.

“I don’t care whether you guys believe me or not,” Stacy said. “I know for a fact that Jonathan Smith’s an angel.”

“I believe you, Stacy,” Ben said.

“You DO, Pa?”

Ben nodded. “ONLY an angel could have possibly stopped YOU from rushing in where they themselves fear to tread,” he said with a smile.

“Actually, Pa, Jonathan told me angels DO rush into those kinds of places,” Stacy said, smiling back. “They just don’t do it quite the same way I do.”

“How do they rush into those kinds of places, Stacy?” Roy asked, bemused by the talk of angels.

“They pray.”

“I hope you remember that next time you’re tempted to rush in where angels fear to tread, Kid,” Joe said.

“You, too, Grandpa.”

“Touché,” Joe responded with a grin.

“I believe Miss Tess is an angel, too,” Ben said thoughtfully. “She has a very special way about her the way she knows exactly what to say, and when.”

“She seemed to know an awful lot about God and Heaven, too,” Hoss said.

“She sure did,” Roy agreed, remembering how she spoke of both those subjects at Lotus O’Toole’s funeral observances.

“Hey, anyone capable of inspiring my sister to do her homework willingly HAS to be an angel,” Joe teased.

Stacy responded by sticking her tongue out at him.

Hop Sing entered the living room with the silver coffee service and five porcelain cups and saucers. “Little Joe . . . Miss Stacy behave,” he admonished the two younger Cartwright children. “Company.”

“Any idea as to who’ll be taking Miss Tess’ place, Roy?” Ben asked.

“Her name’s Monica,” Roy said slowly. “No last name, just Monica. I imagine you kids’ll be callin’ her Miss Monica.” He directed the last comment to Stacy. “She’s Irish, by the sound o’ her, and greener ‘n vault filled with paper money by her own admission.”

“Surely the school board’s NOT going to approve hiring a green kid just out of school, with no experience,” Ben protested.

“Actually, they DID,” Roy said, “seein’ as how Miss Tess gave her a glowin’ recommendation.”

“I’m gonna miss Miss Tess,” Stacy said thoughtfully.

“I am, too,” Ben said quietly. “Her AND Jonathan.” He fell silent. “However much I DO miss ‘em, I don’t want to SEE them again, ever.”

“Really, Pa?” Hoss queried.

“Really!” Ben declared emphatically. “Angels don’t usually put in an appearance unless there’s a lot of serious trouble afoot. Frankly, when it comes to trouble, I’d prefer to stick with the everyday, run of the mill kind that lies within OUR power to handle.”

“You’ve gotta point there, Pa,” Hoss agreed.

“Amen!” Joe, Stacy, and Roy Coffee chorused in unison.

 

 

The End  
March 2005  
Revised July 2008


End file.
